


Crystalline Depths

by TheodoreAurore



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e07 Yakimono, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28218522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheodoreAurore/pseuds/TheodoreAurore
Summary: In which an unthinkable trauma leads Will down a dark path of revenge.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 49
Kudos: 158





	1. Wading

**Author's Note:**

> Violence warning. Rape/Non-Con warning (not between the two mains).
> 
> [Fic Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/66FM8PgSdH3mZTmv4L1DHG).

Will was drinking. 

Of course, he was drinking. He needed it, desperately (without a doubt), if only to forget for the evening and to sleep through the night. Only six hours ago, Chilton had shown up on his porch with blood soaked clothes and a frenzied look in his eyes; Hannibal’s newest patsy. Only a few hours ago, Will’s statement was taken and CSU showed up to gather evidence from his house, including Chilton’s car and the items he’d abandoned in his last ditch attempt at fleeing. Only an hour ago, after his house was deemed processed (because, thankfully, there wasn’t much to collect), he gathered up his dogs and led them back inside, double checking that the door was locked when he left for a bar. 

(He still hadn’t restocked much; both his fridge and pantry remained rather barren. Taking alcohol home this early out of his imprisonment felt like… defeat.) 

So, yes, he was drinking. Rightfully so. He had a deep, sinking feeling that Miriam Lass would identify Chilton as the Ripper. He had an ever deeper feeling that he would find himself at Hannibal’s office in a few days time. He had to be on his A-game, starting then. Why not let loose and knock back a few more rounds than necessary while he still could? 

He drowned out the annoying chatter of the other patrons and tried to focus on forgetting. If just for a moment. 

Will wasn’t on guard, no. He wasn’t like he was _before_. He’d never go back to the person he used to be. (Didn’t want to, didn’t know how.) He wasn’t on guard, so he didn’t think much of the young man who sat next to him and tried to make small talk, pointing up at whatever pointless sports game was being played on the TV. He didn’t think much of the way the man looked at him a little too long, a little too knowingly. He didn’t think much when the man eventually took his leave, after realizing that Will was not here to make idle chit-chat with the alcoholic locals. He didn’t think much when he left the bar either, thoroughly drunk and committed to making the drive home because he was not going to call a cab. A little drunk driving never killed anyone, right? 

(Not that he was _that_ drunk. Just a little. Just enough to feel thoroughly numb.)

He never reached his car, because he (obviously) hadn’t thought much about the man at the bar. Because he hadn’t thought to notice the other two men, three in total, making conversation under their breath, half amused and half excited and half something else entirely. _Three halves do not make a whole_ , some part of Will’s brain graciously informed him. Which, thank you, but he should really focus on something else right now. Namely, the way his hair had been grabbed, how his head had been cracked against the building's brick wall, how he had nearly completely crumpled to the floor, how he couldn’t exactly— _think_. Or move his body, right now, in a bit of shock maybe (maybe). One half of his brain was muddled and unable to think, one half was screaming at him to fight or flee, and one half was gently suggesting to use his training to properly fight off these—muggers? Once again, three halves did not make a whole. But three college aged men _did_ make for difficult opponents when drunk and (very possibly) concussed and bleeding—? Yes, his hair was wet. Yes, he was definitely bleeding. Okay, Graham. _Focus_. 

They manhandled him up from the concrete, and he tried to discern their facial features. Not like he was particularly _upset_ at being mugged, just awfully shocked. This wasn’t D.C. or Baltimore, and these college guys looked rather polished. Fraternity challenge? Some kind of very weird acceptance ritual? Oh, go out and beat up the saddest looking man at the bar, and you can definitely be a part of Phi Kappa Whatever. 

The manhandling turned into a weird, somewhat carry, somewhat walk. Two of them held Will up on their shoulders, his feet dragging on the concrete, as if he were their poor drunk buddy and they were going to drive him home. Will couldn’t, _God_ , he couldn’t get his body to quite _respond_. He could hardly think between the shock of impact and the terrible pain that echoed throughout his head, down his neck and into his body. If he could, he’d probably throw up, and he was definitely drooling (blood or saliva, he couldn’t tell). 

The most disturbing part to Will was how they hadn’t taken his wallet yet. They hadn’t taken anything. _Damn_. They could be kidnapping him, maybe planning on killing him. 

Moments later, he was shoved into some kind of rich college kid car (red Jeep Wrangler, four door, Will noted), and his hands were quickly being bound with… rope. Not good, not good at all. God, why won’t the car stop spinning? He’s really going to be sick now—

Before that could happen, the ringing in his ears (didn’t even notice _that_ ) finally subsided enough for him to realize that the three frat idiots had been talking this entire time. 

“...easier than I thought,” mumbled the idiot on his right, who had just finished tying his hands up (a rather poor job with the knots, if he was honest, but it was still tied extremely tight). Will noted, in his patchwork brain, that this one was the biggest of the three. A real linebacker type with short, almost military-esque black hair. Caucasian. Green eyes, or blue? Maybe 6’4”? Hard to tell sitting down. 

“Shouldn’t we be taking the vid’ already?” the idiot on his left said, tone nervous and far too nasally for Will’s liking. Will tried to turn and look in his direction, but it only made the pain in his head increase tenfold. He opted to slide his eyes over, instead, which gave him an manageable increase of pain. This one was more of a basic type, the type who probably skateboards and drinks too many energy drinks. His hair was brown, and it was cut in a boyband-esque fringe. Brown eyes, or hazel, somewhere around there. Maybe Hispanic? Or just tan. Lanky and tall, at least 6’. 

“Boys. Boys,” started the idiot driving the car. This was the man that had tried to make small chat with Will at the bar. He was tall like the others, but somewhere in between the two when it came to mass. Blond hair cut in a crew style. Caucasian, and if Will’s memory served right, light colored eyes. “We’ll have as much time as we want once we get to my place. No need to get your panties in a bunch.”

So, back to Blond’s place. Frat challenges were really taken to the next level these days. Because that’s what this had to be. Maybe they were going to take his stuff there, beat him up a bit, get it on camera (because ‘pics or it didn’t happen’), and then drop him back off at the bar. The idea sounded right. 

Will’s pulse thrummed in his ears, and he couldn’t listen to their conversation anymore. He had to conserve his energy, redirect elsewhere, for now. Names would be important, but he didn’t currently have the mental space for names. Blood was oozing down the side of his face and he couldn’t—couldn’t even sit up straight. He gingerly tested his extremities. Toes, wiggled in his shoes. Fingers, twitched in their bindings. Eyes, blinked through their haze. Everything else? Still coming back to him.

The drive was shorter than Will expected. Locals? Locals. That’d make sense. Wolf Trap wasn’t exactly a travel destination, the Filene Center excluded. Except, he wasn’t in Wolf Trap right now. He was in Tysons, the town over, because Wolf Trap didn’t have a bar. Tysons, while having a larger population, was geographically smaller than Wolf Trap. Good. Good. Narrows down his future search, especially since they were stopping now.

Speaking of stopping. This had gone on long enough. 

While the Linebacker Idiot was pulling him out of the car, Will tried to elbow him in the gut. Emphasis on ‘tried’ because there wasn’t much force behind it, and he barely got an ‘oof’ out of the big guy. For his efforts, he was shoved ( _hard_ ). Unable to balance himself, Will practically fell face first onto the driveway, the asphalt driveway (devil’s in the details, and asphalt driveways were rarer than concrete). His forehead collided with the ground, less hard than when it had been cracked into the wall, but the shock still reverberated down his spine. More pain sparked in, on his skull, and he fought down a new wave of nausea. On the ground, he noticed one other car in the driveway. Parents? Or maybe it belonged to one of the other guys? 

Before he could try and gather himself to stand up, one of them, _two_ of them grabbed at his arms (hands still tied) and pulled him up. Now, he had his first clear view of the house. It was large, larger than Will’s little ship on the water, and definitely didn’t belong to the Blond Idiot. It was the Blond Idiot’s parents’ house, obviously, because no college kid would have a house that big in a neighborhood this nice. Red bricks, two stories, white pillars, red door, end of the cul-de-sac. Details details details, all to be catalogued. The most important detail came in the form of a number, four digits. He had a house number, he knew what town he was in: all he needed was a street name. And if he couldn’t figure that out, then he could figure it out when he was home and looking at a map. There can’t be that many cul-de-sacs in Tysons with that house number, after all.

Soon, he was in the house and maneuvered into a living room, or a parlor, one or the other. Will was pushed to the ground again, and his head hurt, ears rang; he needed to get his mind together, needed to _think_. He attempted to push himself up, off the hardwood floor, only to be shoved down again in compliance. Will managed to roll onto his side, and sharply inhaled. The room was dark and still, for a moment, before a flash lit it up; and with the flash, in rushed the noise.

“...just a bit?” asked the Lanky Idiot, although Will hadn’t caught the full question and wasn’t exactly sure what he was asking.

“A _bit_?” replied the Blond Idiot. “He’s a psychopath. Doesn’t feel—” He kicked Will in the stomach, and Will curled in with pain. If he didn’t taste blood before, he definitely tasted it now. “—anything. We can rough him up as much as we like. What’s he gonna do, go to the cops?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” responded Lanky. “Maybe he rats us out. Like, I don’t know, since when are you an expert on psychopaths?”

“First of all,” Blond started, “even if he went to the cops, you really think they’d believe him? He’s insane.”

“He _was_ insane. They released him.” 

“You believe that BS? You know the government’s just trying to cover their asses, you gullible fuck,” Blond all but spit out. “God. Sometimes I forget how much of an idiot you really are.”

Oh how _lovely_ , Lanky seemed to be a victim of peer pressure in this bizarre form of hazing. Will almost felt bad for him if it weren’t for the fact that he was complicit in Blond and the Linebacker Idiot’s actions. Speaking of, another flash lit up the dark room, which Will realized was from Linebacker’s phone. Didn’t he ever learn the rule about taking pictures of caged animals? _No flash photography_.

“Can you two stop fighting so we can take the vid’ already?” asked the Linebacker Idiot.

“‘Can you two stop fighting?’” Blond started in a mocking tone, dragging out the ‘i’ in fighting. “That’s what you sound like.” Blond inhaled and exhaled deeply, and Will could see through blurry eyes that he was extremely peeved. As if kidnapping a person was annoying. If anything, Will should be the annoyed one. His nice evening plans were interrupted and completely derailed by these three idiots. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t just be nursing a hangover, but a concussion as well. “Let Drew film. Not like he has the guts to join in on the fun anyways.” 

A name. Lanky’s name was Drew. It wasn’t much, but it was definitely more than what Will had before. He had a first name and he’d memorized Drew’s face, shouldn’t be impossible to figure out his details from there.

“Cool, use mine,” Linebacker said, tossing his phone over to Drew, who barely caught it in time.

Once Drew had the phone situated, he gave Blond a thumbs up, and it began.

Will had the feeling another kick was coming, and braced himself. Rightfully done: Blond’s shoe drove itself into Will’s stomach again. Will wheezed, coughed, definitely coughed up blood. More pain blossomed throughout his body, warm in all the wrong ways. A harder kick made contact with his back, near a kidney, and the fire only spread. He couldn’t deal with this, they wouldn’t stop, he needed to—

wade

into

the

_quiet of the stream._

The calm enveloped him as he found himself standing in the water, cooling him off and letting his mind regroup. Will couldn’t stay here forever, he knew that. Eventually, he would have to resurface. Eventually was not now.

Now, he ignored the way his body screamed at him to _wakeupwakeupwakeup_. The way his heart thrummed in his chest with _fightflightfightflightfightflight_. The way his head was bleeding, even in this altered state. The way he struggled to focus on the fishing pole in his hand, the way he couldn’t remember casting the line, the way he couldn’t remember naming the lure. The way he was _sure_ that he wasn’t standing still enough, standing straight enough, standing strong enough in the water. The way he couldn’t hear the rush of the stream around him, only distant, muted voices. 

The way he knew the stream was empty.

Will would not catch anything.

(Today.)

The distant echoes of pain faded, slightly, for some time. The muted voices continued, but for now, it was time to breach the surface.

Will coughed, coughed again, and pushed himself up as much as he could in order to cough deeper. The damage was bad, but probably superficial. He's likely going to be bruised to hell and back, but he'd (without a doubt) live. A visit to a doctor would most likely be necessary, just to make sure that his head was fine. Concussion might have him on bedrest for a day or so, but that hasn’t stopped Jack before. Those issues were for a future version of himself, though, who could articulate his thoughts without gaining a piercing headache.

Now, it was time to pay attention.

The flash from the video was off, and Will guessed they got what they wanted. Good. He would be done here soon, and they’d drop him back off at the bar. From there, he’d drag himself to his car and drive home and shower and _go to bed_. And. _Damn_. He should probably go to the cops. He really should. Local precinct could deal with this situation. 

Will was on the fence, but he still has time to decide whether to let it go, enact his own revenge, or take the legal route. He’d decide. Soon. He needed to focus now.

“...good. Maybe you should major in photography instead of whatever you’re doing now,” grumbled Linebacker, voice dripping with sarcasm as he looked at his phone, probably reviewing the severe beating they dished out on Will.

“You really think so?” asked Drew, and wow, he really was gullible.

“Yeah man,” joked Linebacker. “Patented Landon Lakenson advice right there. Switch majors in your junior year, whatever, who gives an effin’ hell anymore.”

Oh, and how perfectly stupid they were. Will laughed, tried to, but ended up coughing again, wheezing. He had a full name for Linebacker now, gift wrapped on a silver platter. All that remained was Blond, but he already had Blond’s address. A name would be the cherry on top, only serving to make Will’s job easier. Alternatively, he’d just have to figure out if these guys really were in a fraternity together, or any kind of club. Landon’s full name would point him in whatever direction he needed to go.

“Your advice always sucks, though,” Drew quipped, and then Will saw realization dawn on his face. “Oh, screw off, Landon. Just, are we done here? I have an early class tomorrow and the drive back to D.C. is gonna suck.”

They attended a university in D.C. It was not exactly… a narrowing of the search, considering that D.C. was, _well_ , a large metropolitan area. Nevertheless, Will let the information sink into his mental filing cabinet. 

“That’s your own fault for choosing an early class,” Landon the Linebacker snapped back. “But yeah, we good Alec?”

And Blond was Alec. Hat-trick, Will was done here.

“Yeah boys, I’ll deal with him and clean this place up. Wouldn’t want the blood to stain, after all.” Alec’s tone was casual but… something was off. Something was wrong. Something was amiss.

Drew and Landon said their goodbyes, heading out the front door and (presumably) to the other car that sat in the driveway, leaving Will alone with Alec. The house was eerily quiet as Alec only stood, listened, and watched as the car outside turned on and pulled away. The headlights flickered through the sliver of space in the curtained windows, momentarily, and then disappeared. 

“Finally,” Alec muttered under his breath. “Those idiots are _gone_.”

Will coughed again and cleared his throat before speaking up, voice rough and mouth still tasting of coppery heat. “I’m…” he breathed out, “I’m curious. _Alec_ ,” Will spat out his name like it was venom. “Frat game, right?” he inhaled, exhaled. “But you’re really just… just doing this for the _fun_ of it.”

Alec’s stare was glued on him in a way that made Will’s skin crawl. It didn’t take a genius to tell that Alec was a sadist, a base one at that. No artistry; just raw pleasure and the heady sense of power that came from the act of inflicting pain.

“You’re a fucked up guy, Will Graham,” he responded. Will felt his stomach coil up at the mention of his full name. “And yeah, I guess you could call it a game. But way more real than any of that frat bullshit. It’s a... kind of truth or dare, minus the truth. Us three, we’re on a team. Pulled a dare to beat somebody up, for _real_. Imagine my luck when I spot what seems to be a local _psychopathic murderer_ in the bar we were staking out. Had to double check, of course. And then, imagine my fucking _shock_ when I look you up, and find out you’ve been released. I mean, obviously I knew you were out, ‘cause you were in the bar. But, I dunno, could’ve been a twin or something. Doppelganger.

“And then, y’know, I pointed you out to my boys, and told them how messed up you were… and y’know, we only have until Sunday to complete the dare, and ‘boys, don’t you wanna win?’ Man, it was too easy from there. One drunk psycho against three sober athletes? _Psh_. Like taking candy from a baby. Except, you’re not a baby. You’re a crazy guy who somehow got bailed out, or some bullshit. Wasn’t really _worth my time_ to read that far.”

Will let that sink in for a moment, before speaking again. “You… you should’ve kept reading.” Will rolled flat onto his back, unable to hold his weight up anymore. “I was... exonerated.”

“What’s the difference? You’re still crazy. And I’m still gonna use you.”

In the darkness, Will couldn’t see much of Alec’s features, but he could hear the intent in his unwavering voice.

“So, look,” Alec drawled as he walked over. “You’re like, not gonna scream, right? You’ve been cool until now. Just stay that way, makes it easier. And if you don’t wanna make it easy...”

He heard the sound of a switchblade, and Will felt himself still involuntarily. Okay. _Okay_ , he understood. The game was over. This was real. He didn’t doubt Alec’s capacity to cause harm, even if he slightly doubted his ability to properly dispose of a body. Either way, Will didn’t want to bleed out because of a stab or slice to the wrong spot, didn’t want to die here, not by Alec’s unworthy hands.

Alec was standing over him now, and in the lowlight that seeped in from the streetlamps outside, Will saw the glint of the blade. Before he could take any action, Alec kicked him in the side again, and forced him to roll over onto his back. And before Will could process what was happening, fully _realized_ that—that he was going to—

Will’s tied up hands, which had long gone numb, were trapped under his own body weight. Alec was—Alec was cutting through Will’s belt, and yanking down Will’s pants and—Will felt the blade trail ever so lightly across his lower back. A warning, a warning to stay still, to not fight back. Will, Will couldn’t do that. He tried jerking up, tried kicking, tried to get Alec off of him, only for Alec to grab Will by his hair, pull his head up and _crack_ his forehead into the floor. Will stilled in shock as sparks blossomed behind his eyelids; a moment later, the blade sliced across his lower back. Superficial, surface level, but Will felt the blood trail down the sides of his body nevertheless. 

“I told you to stay cool.”

Will heard his heartbeat thrum in his ears, heard his own shallow breaths, heard the sound of a belt being undone, and heard the telltale noise of a fly being zipped open. 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Will heard himself warn, plead.

Will could hear the sneer in Alec’s voice, taunting and cruel, as he felt Alec spit on his backside, and _press it in_ and _oh God_ —

“Don’t _what_? Do _this_ —?”

And Will felt _pain_ , and _violation_ ; he felt sick, sick and _wrathful_ and—and—(as slow thrust after thrust after thrust turned faster and faster and)—

He didn’t want to be here. This wasn’t something that was supposed to happen to him. Will, he had dogs. He lived in Wolf Trap, Virginia. He empathized with serial killers. He worked for the FBI. He had been institutionalized, but he was a free man now. He had been having a drink earlier tonight. He was planning on resuming his therapy with Hannibal later this week. He was a fisherman. He was a good fisherman.

And he didn’t want to be here. He wanted to—

wade

into

the

 _quiet of the stream_.

There was no fishing pole in his hand.

There were still no fish in the stream.

There was only the water.

He knelt, and let the cold current wash over him.

 _Cold, cold, cold_ as he ignored the oppressive heat of the outside world. Cold as he decided what he was going to do. Cold as a fate was sealed. Cold as a life was marked for death.

A _life_. As if. It wasn’t even worth that. Less than human. Undeserving of breath, to walk this earth.

He understood Hannibal, in that moment. In that sense. He understood.

Will stayed in the water, stayed for a long time.

Stayed so long that the cold became a comfort.

Stayed so long that he no longer felt the cold.

Stayed so long that he became colder than the water itself.

Only then, did he surface.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

Will woke up in an alleyway, sitting propped up against a wall as if he had simply fallen asleep there. As if he were just some idiot that drank too much. The night sky was lightening, and he didn’t need a watch to let him know that it was nearly dawn. He tested his toes, his fingers, and blinked. Inhaled deeply, exhaled shakily. 

He pushed himself up, using the wall as assistance. A brick wall, the same from the bar. Vertigo and nausea overtook him as he finally made it to standing, leaning against the wall. Will’s car had to be nearby then. Fishing around in his vest pocket, he was glad to find that his car keys and wallet were still there. 

And he thought he was going to be mugged.

Will found himself laughing, a broken thing that clawed itself out of his chest, near hysterical until he felt tears prick at his eyes. 

_No_.

He would _not_ cry. This was not worth shedding tears over. Inhale, exhale. Will had made his choice. He knew what he was going to do. By biting his lip, he bit back his tears and kept the nausea at bay. Will took his car keys out of his pocket, and clicked the lock button twice. The car beeped, slightly distant but not as far as he thought it would be. He pushed himself up on the wall, and steeled himself.

Walking was hard, because everything hurt. Thankfully, it was an ungodly hour of day, and there was nobody around to see him clutching his sides in pain, hobbling to his car. Nobody to see the wince when he pulled the car door open, when he sat down. 

He’d go to the hospital, but he had to ensure there was no evidence, first. Then he could drive his sorry self down to the ER, and tell them he’d been mugged. No, he isn’t planning on pressing charges. They only took his cash and beat him up because he gave them trouble. He just needs to make sure his skull isn’t cracked. 

The drive home was short, but it felt so, so long. Stop, go, blinker, turn, stop, blinker, turn, the monotony of driving overtook him as Will found his way home, city rapidly fading into suburban country and the vast sea of trees that surrounded his property and gave it the illusion of isolation. How easily one could get lost; how easily one could drown.

He didn’t feel relief upon seeing his house, driving down the long driveway. Among the many things Will felt, exhaustion was one of most prevalent. He still needed to shower, though. Drink some water. Maybe eat something small. The usual. 

Oh, and his _dogs_. 

Relief finally washed over him as he unlocked his front door and his dogs, his pack, came rushing out to greet him. He loved his dogs. That was an unchanging fact of his life. Even if the whole axis of his world was shifted, even if Abigail was dead, even if Hannibal framed him for murder, even if he was institutionalized, even if Beverly was dead, even if—even if tonight. Happened. He still loved his dogs. It was a small comfort that he let his heavy heart hold onto. 

Will left the front door open as he went into the house. The winter cold from the outside clashed with the artificial heat indoors, but he didn’t mind. His dogs needed to go out, and he wanted to keep moving. After shrugging off his vest and taking off his shoes, his first stop was the kitchen, where he washed his hands and finally noticed just how bad the bruises around his wrists were. They were a pair of ugly things that snaked around, a phantom of the rope that had been there. He shook his pained head when he finished, taking to the fridge. Water. Water was a good choice. Will grabbed the pitcher and found a glass. Probably pills for the pain, too. He grabbed something for pain and something for inflammation; the combo usually treated him well. Will chased them down with the water and was glad that the nausea was tolerable right now. He finished the glass, and accepted that he wouldn’t be able to stomach anything else. That was fine. He could eat tomorrow. Or technically, later today. Fine. 

A cold breeze found its way into the kitchen, and Will went back to the front door. Whistling for his dogs and counting (seven, all here) as they came in, he closed the door and locked it. Double checked the lock. Double counted the dogs. Was it late enough to feed the dogs? The sun was rising, he could feed the dogs. 

(Or he could stop ignoring the bathroom, the mirror, the shower. Inevitabilities that he would eventually have to face, not dance around. He’d already come to terms with the fate of the man who had—the fate of Alec. Will hadn’t come to terms with what happened. He couldn’t.) 

Once the dogs were fed, Will found himself sitting at the dining table. 

He had to get rid of the evidence. 

He had to. 

If Will wanted to go to the hospital, he had to be clean. It was a fact that his paranoia infected brain insisted on. His head hurt too much, and his back, near his kidney hurt too much to be ignored. So, he’d need to shower. He’d need to take off his clothes. He’d need to look in the mirror and assess the damage. 

Will could do that. 

He’d seen much worse in his own head, and in the field, after all. His own mind and sanity had faced a greater violation in the form of Hannibal Lecter. This paled in comparison (yet the rage was the same). 

Clothes discarded and thrown in the wash, Will went to shower, ignoring the mirror for now. He hurt, it hurt trying to clean himself, but he had to get rid of the evidence: _out, damned spot_. Out out _out_. A quiet wrath nestled itself deep in his chest, a humiliated fury that made him bite his lip (again) to the point of drawing blood. 

Red overtook the drain when he washed his hair. Will muffled his winces, even though nobody was around to hear; he was here, and that was enough. He forwent washing his hair with soap, knowing it would only make it burn without mercy. That didn’t mean it was a short shower. No, he stayed under the spray until the burning hot water turned cold, until he could no longer feel the sting of the cut on his back, until he could no longer feel much of anything. 

(Cold like the stream he wished he could disappear into. Cold despite the heat that burned his very being.)

Once he was dry, Will allowed himself to look in the mirror. 

He looked tired, oh so tired. Two lonely bruises marked his face: one from a wayward kick that had caught underneath his jaw, completely hidden by his stubble, two from when his forehead had been smashed into the floor, mostly hidden by his hair. The other marks of torture were littered all over his torso. Bruises that would surely look worse later today mottled his pale skin. Stomach, chest, back. His wrists. Not to mention the damage Will could feel, but not see, internal and shameful and—

Will refused to let that runaway train of thought travel any further. He would not allow himself to admit that kind of defeat. No, did not view himself as a victim. It was impossible because he knew—he knew deep in his subconscious that he was a predator. Predators are not—cannot be victims, let alone to lesser prey. 

Oddly, he found himself getting completely dressed. Long sleeve button down and jeans with warm winter socks. The early sun seeped its way into his living room, cold rays slinking through the windows. With a sigh, he looked at his dogs. His dogs, so unwaveringly loyal and loving. Will joined them on the floor, lying flat on his back amongst his pack. He muttered ‘ _good dogs_ ’ as they made more room for him, and then curled around Will. Surrounded by their warmth, he let his mind go. 

Only then did Will’s heavy eyes shut and his breathing even out until sleep overtook his tired body. 


	2. Lure Making

Will was more tired when he woke up, when the winter sun was at its peak. From an outsider, it would appear that Will was slowly dragging himself through the motions of his everyday life. Reality proved that his mind was spinning with thought. It was true, his body was a mess; he ached and his head pounded as he pushed down the dizziness. But his mind… his mind was _working_. Whirring as he ran with his dogs, playing with them in the snow (ignoring the pain with his movements, almost reveling in the ache of the bruises on his body brought. What a joyously dark reminder that Will was alive, that he was _free_ ). Burning as he made himself coffee and lunch (his nausea had thankfully left him in his sleep and he was able to stomach some a small meal). Overclocking as he grabbed his laptop and bag, locked up his house, and began the drive back to Tysons. 

Will knew he would be finding his way back to this town multiple times in the coming days, week, weeks ( _eventually_ ). He wasn’t too set on his timeline yet. But today, he was on his way to the hospital, to the emergency room. As much as he hated doctors and hospitals, he needed somebody with proper medical knowledge to tell him that his brain was fine, that he wasn’t going to die. Should he have done this earlier today? Maybe. But he didn’t want to then. He was here now, and that would have to be enough.

The wait only lasted a short while. Tysons, again, wasn’t a huge city, and it was a slower time of day. The nurse at the desk had looked confused when he walked up, seemingly fine and healthy, but handed him the forms anyway. Eventually, he was in an examination room explaining to a middle-aged doctor that he had been mugged last night, and that his head was really, _really_ killing him. The doctor, professional but sympathetic, gave him that look that most people used to give Will (before everyone realized that his waters ran deeper and darker than he initially let on). That look of pity. 

Will only ended up having to do some concussion tests (to confirm: yes, of course he had a concussion), and the doctor poked and prodded at Will’s bruises when he had taken off his shirt. No stitches would be needed today, not for his head and not for the cut on his back. No signs of internal bleeding. An MRI wouldn’t be needed either (thank God). All in all, he was rather lucky. Save the concussion, everything was superficial.

Good for him. 

The doctor idly asked Will if he’d gone to the police already, which Will idiotically replied ‘no’ before realizing he should’ve lied. He spent the next five minutes explaining how he worked for the FBI, and how he would be going through more direct channels of law enforcement to ensure the criminals were caught. The lies came effortlessly, so effortlessly that he impressed himself. Conscious and subconscious lies were completely different things, and Will didn’t realize that he might have the skill for this form of deceit as well. 

With that unpleasantness out of the way, the doctor offered a prescription for the pain, for the inflammation. Will politely declined all of them. Joked about knowing his way around over-the-counter medicines, how he used to have encephalitis, how this was nothing compared to that. A worried look flashed over the doctor’s face, for just a moment, before he laughed with Will.

(Of course, he didn’t tell the doctor what else had happened. What else hurt. Will would do some research on his own, later today, on how to deal with that. _No evidence_.)

Early afternoon had sunk in by the time Will exited the emergency room. His insurance would mostly cover the expenses, and what he paid out of pocket was manageable. Not like he was lacking money, anyway. Will was good at managing his finances. He was good at managing. He was good. 

Mostly, he was good because he was free, free to do anything. Free to resume his therapy with Hannibal Lecter tomorrow evening. Now, _that_ was a lure he still needed to craft. Thankfully, he still had time. Later today, he would set his focus on a different set of disturbances in the waters of his life. Later today, he would conduct his research on Drew, on Landon, on _Alec_. 

He bit open the cut on his lip from earlier, and let the blood seep into his mouth. 

Now, he needed to focus on himself and Hannibal. It was a delicate situation, and he wanted to be on his best game tomorrow. Even if Will couldn’t feel his best, he wanted to present his best. Hannibal wouldn’t suspect a thing, not until he was either being cuffed or dying at Will’s hand. 

And it would be _glorious_. Playing Hannibal at his own game… and luring out his guilt. Will wouldn't give Hannibal enough to implicate (in a court of law), but he’d show just enough to draw the monster out of the dark. To come play in the light of day. How lovely. How enticing. How _perfect_. Will could only imagine the look on Alana’s face when she realized that good Hannibal Lecter was even worse than Will Graham. 

Karma, karma, karma.

The reckoning, and his becoming (Hannibal’s unbecoming) would all happen in due time. 

And appearance was everything. 

His first stop was a nearby tea shop. Will put on a friendly smile, and was glad to receive one back from the woman manning the counter. People treated him better when he didn’t wear his glasses, he’d noticed quickly after being released from his institutionalization. People treated him even better when he let an amicable mask fall over himself, when he smiled and grinned (even if it never reached his eyes) and made small talk. Will wanted something that would help him sleep, lest his eyes bags reveal his true exhaustion, and the tea lady happily showed him the shelf that housed the chamomile tea. He bought two boxes and thanked her, again with a smile. 

Second came the barber shop. His hair had grown far too long, trapped behind bars. Will’s curls covered his eyebrows, and at times, obfuscated his vision. His longer strands were also far too easy to grab hold of. No, he needed to be able to see everything and make sure that no wisps of hair would stray, or fall out. After all, _no evidence_.

With some inches shorn off, he looked better. The slight bruise on his forehead was more noticeable, but he at least looked… presentable, maybe? Less of a threat? More… normal. Yeah. He looked more normal. And yet, at the same time (to the trained eye, to the person that he was doing this for), he looked more of a predator. Blending in would be easier with this kind of hairstyle, and with his curls less prominent. And with his glasses gone… well. Will looked like a new man. On the way out, he even went as far as to purchase a new hair styling gel. Will almost huffed a laugh at his decisions. 

Done creating the new image of _Will Graham_ , he set his mind to the two men with fates-to-be-determined, and the one dead man walking. So, his third stop was a coffee shop, one with free internet. He purchased a decaf cup of coffee, sat at a lonely table, and pulled his laptop out of his bag. 

_Landon Lakenson_ , was his first search in the Tor browser. 

Landon attended Georgetown University, on full ride scholarship for lacrosse. He was one of the team’s goalies, number 33. He clocked in at 6’4” and 210 pounds (Will actually smiled at correctly guessing his height), and was 21 years old. Three cheers for being of legal drinking age, Will guessed. Landon was a junior who was majoring in sports management. He had two older sisters that played field hockey at Georgetown and Yale. Will could see the way Landon never had to worry about hurting a younger sibling, never learned how to protect (ironically, despite being goalie). His hometown was Detroit, Michigan; not _too_ far from home. Landon’s headshot on the roster was of him giving an open mouth smile, honest and sincere. He was, overall, a completely normal person who just so happened to have the capacity to beat up a person like Will Graham (labeled psychopath, exonerated on murder charges). 

Will didn’t think he was going to kill this man, even if he so deeply wanted to. 

He took a sip of his coffee, and _wow_ , it was _not_ good. Decaf was never good, but this was spectacularly bad. While he was already planning on never returning to this café, this doubly confirmed his plans. 

Seeing how Lakenson was on the lacrosse team, it was safe to assume that the messed up dare game they were playing stemmed from the team. That meant Drew and Alec would be on the roster. He searched for Drew’s name on the roster list first, and came up with one Drew Warne. 

At 6’1” and 178 pounds, Drew was one of the team’s attackers (number 42). He was studying computer science, which made sense to Will, in a weird way. He had an older brother that played lacrosse at (and graduated from) Northwestern and a younger sister that played tennis at Florida. Will always found athletic families to be strange. One kid played a sport, and all the others _obviously_ had to play one too. Like Landon, Drew was 21 years old. _God_. Will felt old. Drew’s roster picture was more subdued, with a tight lipped smile that didn’t exactly reach his eyes. He was a long way from home, San Francisco, California. Odd. His siblings had gone far from home too. An image of a middle kid, one that easily succumbs to others’ demands, from a broken family conjured in his mind before he could stop it. 

He took another sip of the terrible coffee. 

Will didn’t think he was going to kill this man either; he didn’t even think he _wanted_ to kill him. 

Returning to the roster list, he searched Alec’s name, and couldn’t find it. He tried Alek, and returned nothing. Scrolling through the roster, there was no ‘Alec’ listed, but there was... 

A.J. Sinclair stared back at him, a grin in his picture with eyes that Will could only see as cruel, sadistic. He refused to give any humanity to the man. Will’s jaw clenched as he read about Alec John. 

Team captain. Midfielder, occasionally did the faceoff, (un)lucky number 13 labeled on his jersey. Seemingly their star player. 

Something inside of Will began to boil before he remembered to calm himself. He could stay collected until—well. Until. 

Alec’s hometown was Tysons, Virginia (but Will already knew that). He was a junior that was studying marketing management. Will would make certain that Alec would never earn his bachelor’s degree, never walk across the podium. 22 years old and an only child. Selfish and self-important. Idly, Will wondered how many other people he had—how many other people didn’t come forward. Or, if one or two did, and the case was shelved by incompetent and biased officers, or if they were thrown out of court for a lack of _evidence_. _Evidence_ that Alec obviously hadn’t cared about when it came to Will. 

Was it supposed to be... a form of mockery? How Alec knew that Will wouldn’t report it. Report anything. Like twisting a knife in an already gushing wound.

Alec Sinclair’s days were numbered. Will only had to decide what that number was.

Next, he recalled the four digit number from the house, and searched for it within Tysons. A decent amount of results came back, and Will found himself crossing off most of the addresses when they proved to be storefronts. Two were residential, and checking on the satellite image, only one of those two had an asphalt driveway. Will would make sure to swing by later to confirm it was, indeed, the same house, and to check if they had any security measures or door cameras. If there were, his main plan would have to be thrown out in favor of a less artful backup plan.

Will closed the browser and laptop lid. He held the warm coffee cup with both of his hands, staring idly at the curling steam as he brainstormed. Obviously, the video that Drew took on Landon’s phone was the biggest issue. It wasn’t like it recorded what happened _after_ the camera stopped, what happened _after_ Landon and Drew left, but it was still an issue. If their teammate suddenly turned up dead (not missing, because Will had _plans_ ), then Landon and Drew would obviously be questioned. He wasn’t sure Landon would be so willing to explain to the police (or the FBI, if Will’s plans went through as he currently imagined them) that he and his two buddies had gone out, kidnapped a man, beat him up, and filmed it to share with the team for their messed up game. Team bonding gone wrong? Will shook his head.

That would _also_ expose the entire team. If Will knew one thing from his days as a cop, it was that the group came before the individual. If one man jumped ship, reported a fellow officer, tried to right a wrong in their inherently corrupt system, then that man was dead. Actually, he wouldn’t even have a chance to jump ship willingly before he was forced to walk the plank at swordpoint. From what Will understood of team dynamics, he could easily see how a college team as toxic as this one might adopt the same tactics. Landon would be silenced by either his teammates or by his coaches in hopes of a cover up. Drew, on the other hand… Drew technically hadn’t been in the video. He was the cameraman, silent and completely complicit in Landon and Alec’s actions. Will _wanted_ to believe that Drew might be happy if Alec turned up dead. Will knew that would be too good to be true.

Another drink, and Will sighed, rotating the cup on the little table. 

Drew might be… persuadable. Again, he the type of person that understood when it was the right time to fold. An attacker on the field, but a defender in real life. Even if Drew was able to speak up and argue his point, he’d always give up in the end. That much, Will could allow himself to believe. But, if Will directly contacted Drew, that would obviously seal his guilt. 

Yet another sip of coffee, and Will wondered why he was even drinking it. Technically, it was a prop for his front of normalcy. He could just sit here and _not_ drink it, get up in fifteen minutes, and throw it away. Nevertheless, he sipped on. It was just the right amount of self-torture for what he was thinking about.

Will couldn’t put all his eggs in the singular basket of ‘Landon keeping quiet’, though. For all Will knew, Landon’s entire moral code could shift in the face of a murder. The safest bet was to try and steal the phone, delete the video, make sure Landon hadn’t already shared it with the team…

Sunday. Will stilled his idle cup rotating as he remembered the detail, such a minor thing that Alec had mentioned. They had until Sunday to complete the dare. Will doubted the team would willingly keep a group chat, or anything similar, for this kind of… thing. Nobody would dare upload a video like that, right? That’d be as good as signing away your scholarship _and_ future if it was leaked. No, it’d be Sunday because that’s their day off, no practice, no class, no anything. A day where all the crueler members of the team would meet up and share their borderline snuff films. 

_Okay_. That wasn’t much time to figure out where Lakenson lived, but it was enough.

Will opened the computer again, and tried to look up the practice schedule for the men’s lacrosse team. He was unsuccessful, but he was able to figure out what field they practiced on. That was good enough. Will could stake it out all day, if need be, in order to follow Landon back to his home. Not like Will had anything else to do, after all.

_Except_ he had standing appointment time with Hannibal. In that case, he had until after sunset. He doubted practice would last long enough to turn the field lights on. It would either be morning or mid-afternoon. Lacrosse teams practiced in the snow, right? Will was pretty sure they did; it was like football but with sticks.

Tomorrow would be interesting, if nothing else.

Will powered down his laptop this time, and put it back in his bag. He pondered over how he would deal with Drew. Once the video was gone, the evidence that Landon, Drew, Alec, and Will Graham ever had encountered each other would be gone. Will knew for a _fact_ that the bar he visited the other night had no surveillance cameras because that was the _exact_ reason he frequented it (and in all honesty, it was probably the reason those three idiots had visited it as well, in addition to being close to Alec’s choice of set for the _film_ ). All of that would only leave Landon and Drew’s stories. Obviously, yes, Will had visited the emergency room, but medical files were private and he doubted the FBI was going to be scouring E.R. surveillance cameras for any instances of Will. And to be honest, if the video is gone…

Wait. _Damn_.

Will finished the coffee and resisted the urge to crush the cup in his hand.

If the video was gone, then Drew and Landon would be able to make up whatever story they wanted. And if they believed that psychopath Will Graham had killed their friend, then they could easily point the FBI in his direction. He did not want them looking in his direction whatsoever. He didn’t even want to be on their radar—even though he already was (most likely) on the BAU watchlist. Will did not want to be sent back to the BSHCI, nor did he want to spend life in prison.

So.

What to do?

A beautifully dark part of himself wanted to ask Hannibal. An uglier, but equally dark part of himself would rather profess his own guilt before asking for help from _Hannibal_.

Obviously, the easiest solution would be to make it look like an accident. Mugging gone wrong (ha, the bitter irony), a trip and fall down the stairs into a snapped neck, etc. The second easiest would be to make Alec disappear. Forever. It would be quiet, and Will would make sure the body was never found. But that was not the solution Will wanted. The solution Will wanted would be—

(The Chesapeake Ripper. The pig’s body would be deformed and transformed into something, something that showed his true nature, something that exposed him for the disgusting animal he was. It would be righteous. _It would be glorious_.)

—difficult to obtain, to say the least. But, seeing as how he was sort of an _expert_ in catching killers, Will was certain he’d be able to get away with becoming one.

As long as there wasn’t enough evidence to make a convincing story, then he would remain a free man. Motive was key, and Will needed to make sure he had none. So, the Sinclair household would be his next stop. Will was glad to finally leave the coffee shop and throw the empty cup of decaf away.

The house was rather close, of course. Will had remembered that from, from last night. Earlier today.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, and Will dug his nails into the steering wheel to ground himself. That… happened earlier today. Earlier. Today.

The sun was low on the horizon when he slowly made his way down the cul-de-sac and saw the house, jaw clenched so tight that it felt like he might crack a tooth. It was the same house. Red bricks, red door, his red blood on the hardwood floor—

_No_. 

No.

He noticed the lack of cars in the driveway, and wondered if Alec’s parents were still out of town. Probably yes. Will also idly wondered if Alec actually lived at this residence. Georgetown wasn’t exactly far, and paying for an apartment close to campus often cost an arm and a leg. Not that this kind of family couldn’t afford it, but it’d seem pointless for Alec to have his own property. Redundant. Either way, Will couldn’t get over how Alec’s buddies had really driven out to Tysons to use the house for their dirty little game. For Alec’s dirty—it dawned on Will that Alec had most likely suggested this to happen at his place because… he planned to do _that_ to _whoever_ they decided to beat up. Will just happened to be the _whoever_.

He wanted to laugh (but he didn’t).

Will stopped the car in front of a house that had a ‘for sale’ sign up in front of it. From his glove box, Will produced a pair of binoculars that he kept there for exactly this reason. Never know when you need to conduct a stake-out, or in this case, check on the security of a McMansion in a neighborhood that rarely saw crime (outside of what happened last night, of course). 

A quick view of the house through the binoculars confirmed what Will wanted to be true: no cameras. Of course, there could be a really small one hidden somewhere near the front door, but if that was the case, Will was screwed either way. Screwed if he walked up to look, screwed if he didn’t look. He’d… he’d let himself have this little victory. 

Satisfied, Will put away the binoculars, pulled a U-turn, and drove back into town.

The last stop was the grocery store, where he made sure to pick out some better nutritional options than he usually did. While his last trip to stock up on food (his first after being released) was only a few days ago, Will had to admit that he still didn’t have enough of anything in his fridge and cabinets. More food wouldn’t hurt. 

(The thought of buying alcohol made Will feel sick; he avoided the aisle with vehemence. He would not compromise himself in that form again, nor did he want the taste to serve as a reminder.)

He debated stopping at the department store for some new clothes… but the sun was low and he was exhausted from his long day out. Will was sure he had some nice things at home that he could work with, things he had shoved to the back of his closet that would look good after a fresh wash.

The sun had dipped below the horizon when he finally arrived back home, and after putting the groceries away, Will spent a good amount of time on the porch as his dogs ran around in the snow. Each inhale was cold ( _cold, cold, cold_ ) with the bitter, winter air. Each exhale was warm, with a puff of steam. When he could no longer feel his nose, he whistled for the dogs and dried their wet paws and legs off before all of them headed into the heat of the house, something he had failed to do earlier today. 

Dinner was served, for both Will and the dogs. Lacking a proper appetite, Will had to force himself to down his sandwich. Once the plate was in the sink, he let himself continue to fall into a sense of normalcy, as he took his clothes from yesterday out of the dryer. He tucked the full set of clean clothes away to the bottom of a drawer, making sure each piece was accounted for; one fleece lined, dark brown vest, one deep blue plaid button down, one pair of pants (sans belt, likely taken or thrown away by Alec), one pair of socks, one pair of underwear. These clothes would stay shelved for a while, and would only be worn one more time before being burned, and burned again. Their ashes would be scattered in the woods around his property, lost underneath the snow. And then Will would move on. 

But that was not for today. Today was over.

Will resigned himself to take a shower, again ignoring the pain and washing his bruised body carefully. The cut on his scalp felt better, fine enough to use soap when he washed his hair, and that was much easier now that it was shorter. This time, he showered in a timely manner, as he usually did. In and out and onto the nightly rituals. The chamomile tea he had obtained earlier ended up tasting terrible, but Will had expected that. He downed it as quickly as he could, with a grimace on his face.

His bones nearly ached with bitter exhaustion by the time he rolled into bed, wincing as he shifted incorrectly on his bruised body. Lying on his back proved to be the best; it evenly distributed his weight and ensured that he wasn’t on his stomach. Being trapped in a prone position, after all, was _not_ good. He would keep things good.

Despite his still scattered thoughts and complicated mental plans, he was able to quickly slip into sleep. The overwrought mind and body could only last so long before they crashed.

(This wasn’t crashing, though. This was only sleep. A deeply needed sleep, in his bed, at the right time of night. Tomorrow would be another day, an exhausting but important day; the first day of a new life. And he would be ready.)


	3. Casting

The day started slow. Between the cold and Will’s early morning grogginess, the only thing that ended up getting him through his rituals and dog-related obligations, out of the house, and through the drive into D.C. was the righteous indignation burning in his chest. Also, the cocktail of painkillers he’d downed certainly helped. He wasn’t necessarily tired, no, it was just that kind of dreary day where it would’ve been easier to stay in bed than to wake up. The sky held a low, grey overcast that blended into the snowy horizon. 

It was barely a few minutes past 8AM when he made it to the Georgetown campus. He debated between buying a parking ticket for the southwest garage (if only to make his life easier and the walk to the field and athletic facilities shorter) but ended up deciding against it. He didn’t want a paper trail of a parking purchase to be his downfall; he ignored the part of his brain that logically informed him that he was being paranoid. Will ended up parking in the shopping district of Georgetown, in a half full parking lot that cost $16 for the whole day. Because, of course, there was no free parking in D.C. Even at parks, Will knew, the damn spots were metered. Any free street parking came at the price of a time limit. A ticket would be worse than a receipt from an off-campus parking lot. He could always say he went shopping; shopping, of course, being code for stalking.

When he phrased it like that, it made his actions sound predatory. Which, of course, they were in the sense that he was now the unleashed predator, watching his prey and learning all that he could.

He let himself take the walk to campus, a bit over half a mile away, at a leisurely pace. Even if practice started at 8, it wouldn’t end for a few hours. And Will had a feeling that practice would _not_ start at 8, not during pre-finals week. No, a college team would have reduced training hours in pre-finals week, and no training hours during finals week, all leading up to winter break. Honestly, Will knew he was going to be freezing out in the cold today, but it’s not like he had any other options. 

Well. Except _Alana_.

Would it even be worth it to drop by her office? Not like he knew where it was, on campus, and not like he knew her office hours. But it would be a great, if painful and grating, way to pass the time. Never too late to try and rebuild a burnt bridge, right? Or at least try. Will could play nice, explain how he was going to resume his therapy with Hannibal this evening, explain how he was _sorry_ that there was a severe lack of trust between them. He could.

Or he couldn’t. He’d decide that later, because he could see the field now, and it was woefully empty with a fresh dusting of snow. Will also noticed the presence of not just one campus police car parked near the field, but _two_. One idled on the south side, and the other was turned off on the east side, where Will currently was. He made a mental note to stake out on the northwest side, later today (assuming the cars would still be there). 

He had time to burn now, quite a lot of time, actually. This was the exact reason why he had brought his laptop and bag again. It wasn’t just a prop, to make it look as if he were some associate professor or researcher walking around campus, but an actual way to waste his time. Additionally, if somehow, today’s plans went wildly south, there was a switchblade tucked in the side pocket of his bag, and his gun was in the main pocket. He hoped nothing that happened today would justify having to use weapons, but it was better for him to be safe than sorry (even if firearms were prohibited on campus). 

As for burning time, luckily, there was a bagel shop only a bit further north on campus. He soon found himself settling into a small table, tucked away in the corner of the shop. With a bagel sandwich in hand and his laptop booting up, Will mapped out his timeline today. It was almost 9, and he’d be staying here for at least one more hour. He’d have to check the field again around 11, and if it was still empty, he’d return at 2. There was little chance of practice happening over the lunch hour. If nobody was on the field by 2, he’d come back at 4. And if he still failed to see anybody… well. Sunset was at 5, and he’d have to resign for the day and make the drive up to Baltimore. Where Hannibal waited. 

Speaking of Hannibal, Will was debating over what to talk about for their first session. Obviously, he couldn’t talk about his plans because, one, it's _illegal_ and two, Will couldn’t hand Hannibal _all_ the cards. Now, he _could_ hint at his plans through metaphors and hypothetical situations and vague questions. And their lovely dance would begin again. 

(How Will wanted to kill him. How he wanted Hannibal gone. How, in the same breath, he desperately wanted to ask Hannibal for help. The juxtaposition was enough to make Will sick.)

Alternatively, he could actually use Hannibal as a therapist. Not like he would, but he could. Though, it’s not as if Hannibal would believe it, if Will actually chose to take the route of professionalism. It was a delicate thing, their _Danse Macabre_.

(Will wasn’t even sure how he would react again, seeing Hannibal. Face to face. Their last interaction had not been delicate, and Will desperately wished he _had_ pulled that trigger, while also deeply relieved that he hadn’t.)

Vaguely decided on the route he was going to take with Hannibal, Will let himself become absorbed in his computer. He still had quite a lot to catch up on, seeing how he spent some months trapped in the BSHCI with very limited access to news from the outside world. It was a menial task that he truly could care less for, but it was a more than adequate way to pass his time. Without thinking, he even found himself looking up Alana’s information on the Georgetown website, taking note of her early afternoon office hours and office location (despite knowing he would not be visiting her, at least not today).

When 11 eventually rolled around, his bagel long since finished and his computer plugged in with a low battery, Will decided that it was time for him to bid _adieu_ to the bagel shop. With his jacket on and his items packed up, Will braved the cold once again. Finding his way back down to the field was easy enough, despite the different route he ended up taking. Georgetown was a quaint campus of red brick buildings and asphalt roads (and how disgustingly familiar that sounded), and Will found it impossible to get lost—especially since he all but memorized the guide map. 

The field was occupied, but not with lacrosse players. No, _football_ players and coaches were milling about the field and training. Great. At least Will knew that lacrosse wouldn’t be here for a while. Against better judgement, he decided to take the half mile walk back into the shopping district to let time slip away in a different way. On the way, he stopped at the parking lot that contained his car and dropped off his laptop bag, tucking his wallet and phone into his jacket pockets.

Somehow, he gravitated towards a clothing shop. It was more upscale than what Will was used to, but he entered despite himself and went towards the winter clothing rack. A charcoal grey wool coat and a matching scarf caught his eye, and he looked down at his current jacket. He _definitely_ needed an upgrade, and another scarf wouldn’t be overbudget. Neither would nice leather gloves, he noted, as Will picked up a pair. The total was expensive, so expensive that it almost shocked Will, but he reminded himself that he was soon to be compensated for the miscarriage of justice carried against him. This wouldn’t break the bank. Satisfied with his purchase and how the dark charcoal of the coat would contrast with the salmon of his button down ( _Hannibal_ would approve), he made his way back to the parking lot.

Once back at his car, he ended up swapping out his old jacket with his new coat, and putting on the new gloves and scarf to boot. Again, Will grabbed his laptop bag (this time, to be used exclusively as a prop) and dry-swallowed some more aspirins. Catching his reflection in the car window, he noticed that his look was all rather… nice. Fitting. 

(He couldn’t even see the bruise on his forehead, nearly perfectly hidden by carefully styled hair. Invisible were the marks that cuffed his wrists, underneath the long sleeves and coats, everything else _also_ safely hidden underneath layers of clothing. Of armor.)

It felt _right_ and he felt like his _new_ self as he made his way back to the campus. It was half past 1, but the cloudy skies still gave the world around him the appearance of early morning. Walking up to the field from the northwest side again, his mood deeply darkened as he saw that the lacrosse team was finally practicing. Tall bushes concealed his location from the field, but not from anybody else approaching. He only hoped that the small stream of people that made their way down this part of campus assumed he was simply a lacrosse fan, a professor that took a liking to sports. Brows furrowed and eyes squinted, he tried to find jersey number 33, purposefully ignoring all others. If he caught a glimpse of number 13, dutifully leading a drill in center field, he did not take note of it. Landon was the person that mattered right now, and he was currently in the south goal, practicing catching shots that a coach quick-fired at him.

Will began to debate how long he should idle here, how long practice would take, but the vibrating of his phone in his new coat’s pocket interrupted his thought process. The caller ID read _Jack Crawford_. Will internally collected himself and let the phone vibrate two more times before picking up the call.

“Jack?”

“Where are you?” Jack asked, the words all but seemingly falling out of him the second Will spoke.

Will considered what to say for a brief moment, seeing how he wasn’t doing anything illegal (not yet), but he still didn’t want to willingly divulge his location. Best to answer a question with a question then.

“What’s happened?” Will’s tone was almost bitter.

There was a pause on the line before Will heard Jack sigh. “Miriam shot Chilton.”

And the world stilled.

Of _course_. Of course she would’ve reacted like that. Of _course_ Hannibal would have ensured that her response would be so perfectly manufactured. So artfully hollow. So full of meaningless meaning. It was a false new beginning for Miriam Lass, if Chilton was shot; _retribution, revenge_. Because that’s what her mind had been programmed to believe.

Will wanted to do something violent, throw his phone, drive to Baltimore right now and strangle—

He sighed through his nose. _No_. He was going to be thoughtful about this. He was going to play Hannibal’s game.

“Good for her,” Will responded, words spoken calmly and with great measure. “What do you need me for?”

Jack sighed again. “I just thought it’d be... good for you to know.”

“Well, now I do,” he drawled, his words again slow and thoughtful. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“Of course.” A beat. “I’ll, I’ll call you if I’ve got a case for you.” It wasn’t an offer, but a promise.

“I know you will,” Will responded with a smile creeping onto his face. Not one of happiness, but one of bitterness so strong that it coiled into near-hysteria.

Jack hung up and Will looked at the phone in his hand, holding it so tight that it could’ve broken. Before he could do something idiotic, he pocketed it and counted his breaths. 

It wasn’t an entirely shocking continuation of events regarding Frederick Chilton, but it still managed to make Will’s wrath bubble up again. He was so desperately trying to keep this heat under wraps until… until. He had to be ice when he was with Hannibal; reflective and mysterious with dangerous waters underneath that Hannibal would _see_ but be unable to escape until it was too late. If Will were to drown, Hannibal would drown with him. He would have it no other way.

(If that were truly the case, then Will could have shot Hannibal and then shot himself. But that’s not truly what he wants, is it? To drown together, yes, but to also resurface and live again. To find the gold in the wreckage, to find meaning in the suffering, to find love in the pain.

Love?

That couldn’t be right. It was hate, he felt _hate_. It was always _hate_.)

He needed to take a walk, busy his mind again to avoid an inevitable entropy. Before he could stop to think about the possible ramifications of ditching his target, he was walking away from the field at a brisk pace, distancing himself and distancing his emotions in the same breath. 

Walking around the entirety of the Georgetown campus was an easy task. It couldn’t have been more than two miles, and those forty minutes of walking felt both so long and so incredibly short. Will could aptly compare the experience to driving; an eternity would pass, and then he’d check his watch and see that an ‘eternity’ was only ten minutes.

Time had long since lost meaning to Will today; he’d checked his watch too many times to care anymore. As long as he made it to Baltimore, to Hannibal, on time, nothing else mattered. Except, of course, stealing Landon Lakenson’s phone.

By the time he circled back around to the field, the team was walking off it and heading in the direction of (what Will assumed) their locker room. He idled some more, walking around the field once in total, glad to see that the campus police had since relocated. Only a short amount of time had passed before Landon reappeared, bursting through the double doors that the team had entered just a short time ago. He was the first man out of the locker rooms, and Will’s curiosity couldn’t help but wonder why. Not even showered, it seemed; Landon was in sweats, winter boots, and a hoodie with a full duffle bag hanging from one shoulder. No doubt he was cold in this weather, and his brisk pace proved it. If the bag on his shoulder was heavy, it didn’t show. _The perks of being an athlete_ , Will thought sourly. 

He let himself follow Landon at a comfortable distance, easily blending in with the milling students and faculty members at this busy hour. Soon, however, the north side of campus bled into an emptier residential neighborhood, and Will was forced to slow his pace to allow the distance between him and his target to increase. Only fifteen minutes later, Will spotted Landon unlocking the door to a ground level apartment and entering. It was a rundown place, with only a dozen or so units that were most likely rented out by an opportunistic owner that was only able to keep the rent high due to the proximity to campus. Will knew because he’d once suffered a similar fate attending George Washington University. He was glad to leave his university days behind. 

Will made a mental note about the address and the street, and further noted that there seemed to be no forms of security for the apartments. He also noted the car parked on the street in front of Landon’s apartment, the same one from the other night. 

As much as he wished he could kick down Landon’s front door and take the phone from him, crack his skull against the wall and see how _he_ liked it, Will knew that would be idiotic of him. And unlike the three men that kidnapped him, the two that beat him up, and the one that—

Will was not an idiot. Not like them.

He turned around to backtrack to the campus, only to— _ouch_ , run directly into Drew Warne. Will heard a _clat-clat-clatter_ , and quickly noticed that Drew had dropped his phone onto the sidewalk.

“Damn, sorry man,” Drew started as he reached down to retrieve his phone from the ground. Will took the moment of distraction to quickly grab the switchblade from the side pocket of his messenger bag, and tuck it safely into his palm and out of sight. When Drew stood up properly, Will noticed the embarrassment on his face, the frustration, and then, the recognition. “Oh. It’s you. You, what, what are you doing here?”

Will wanted to ask Drew the same question, but then pieced together the fact that Landon and Drew were most likely _roommates_. Will was so preoccupied with Landon that he failed to notice if anybody else would be heading in the same direction. God, _now_ Will felt like an idiot; where was his head? He was hyper focused yet clouded by murky waters. Blinking once, Will remembered that he didn’t want to resort to violence and threats, not yet, not if he could talk his way out. He could work with this.

“Drew, right?” Will asked as he allowed a wary smile to grace his face, allowing a facade to fall over his personality. “Sorry, that night is still pretty foggy,” he lied. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m Drew. You’re Will Graham,” Drew practically breathed out, as if he couldn’t believe that Will was standing in front of him, in the flesh. “You’re—sorry, are you okay?” Drew looked confused, but not confused at Will. Confused at… himself? Will found it peculiar. Drew anxiously adjusted the beanie that covered his dark hair.

“I’ve been better, but the doctor said I’m fine. Just a lot of bruises, and a concussion,” Will let his body language loosen up, completely casual, as if Drew were an old friend Will was catching up with.

“Yeah, Landon, uh, Landon smashed you pretty hard against the, uh…” Drew trailed off, a slight realization dawning on him. “Did you, did you follow Landon back?”

“I did,” Will confirmed. “Tried to talk to him after practice, but he was rushing out of there. Couldn’t catch up,” he stated with a fake smile and an exaggerated shrug.

“Oh,” Drew dragged out, as if what Will explained made complete sense. “Okay, yeah, Landon’s got a paper due at midnight. Dead week and all. Coach got on his case for being zoned out, even though it was _literally_ our second-to-last practice of the year.”

“Oh, I understand,” Will said in an airy tone that wasn't entirely his, understanding despite not wanting to. “I had my fair share of all-nighters, studying at GW.”

“You went to GW?” Drew’s tawny eyes sparkled with recognition, distracted from the previous train of thought like a fish to a flashy lure. 

“Got my masters there,” Will revealed, allowing the conversation to drift.

“Really?” Drew lit up even more, and Will couldn’t help feeling perplexed at Drew’s desire to draw the conversation out. “I really wanna go there for grad school too. I’m, I’m studying comp. sci. right now, and while it’d be nice to stay here, I don’t think I’m getting into the program. They’re uh… they’re pretty tough here.”

“Tell me about it,” Will deadpanned, not exactly meaning to.

“Yeah, GW seems a bit more feasible, and I wouldn’t even have to move. It’d be really convenient,” Drew trailed off for a moment, distant and fantasizing of some ideal future that Will truly _did not care about_. “Sorry, uh, I’d ask you to put in a good favor, but you probably don’t… uh…”

“Know anybody in the department?” Will guessed, knowing the guess was completely wrong. Will wanted Drew to say what he meant, draw out the guilty feeling that seeped around the edges of his character.

“No, uh, y’know, you uh… went to jail.” 

Hook, line, sinker.

Will let himself wince at the comment, a hurt expression rolling over his face with ease. “I was actually hospitalized, and I was exonerated, but it’s fine.” _It's fine_ , a lie in every conceivable sense. “A lot of people don’t read the details.”

“So, like… what does that mean, then?” Drew questioned, seeming both confused and concerned.

“It means that the FBI did a poor investigation,” Will explained as he let another uneasy smile lift his lips, “and I had encephalitis, and nobody believed me when I said I didn’t kill all those people.”

“What’s… what’s, uh, encephalitis?” Drew asked warily before quickly picking up again. “I mean, like, how does a shi—mess like that even _happen_?”

Will huffed. _Oh, it happened because Hannibal wanted it to happen._

“Encephalitis is an inflammation of the brain. The type I had is rare and often misdiagnosed as mental illness,” Will explained with little emotion and found that his acting facade was blending with his real self, in that moment. It was a script he knew so well that it felt branded into his very being, an immutable fact. “So my brain was on fire and everybody thought I was crazy. Easy to pin a batch of murders on that type of guy.” 

Another wave of guilt washed over Drew’s face, and oh, how _good_ that felt. 

“So… you were just a normal guy?” Drew questioned with a nervous swallow.

“Yeah,” Will replied with a grim look. “I taught at the FBI academy, I’ve got seven dogs, I like fishing, and five murders were blamed on me. About as normal as they come.” What a lovely lie that was.

The air was still for a moment, and Will idly realized that snow had begun to lightly fall from the marble grey sky. 

“I’m… I’m really sorry,” Drew ended up spilling, as the frozen flakes fell from their trapping clouds above. “If I knew, I would’ve tried to… I don’t know, talk Alec and Landon out of it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Will lied, and patted Drew’s shoulder with his free hand. “We all make mistakes.”

“I just wish I could make it up to you, man, like… damn, I am _so_ sorry. I didn’t even wanna beat you up. It’s just, our team, we’re doing this dare game, and Alec and Landon really wanna win—”

“Like I said,” Will cut in with another forced smile, “don’t worry about it. You didn’t even lay a hand on me.” He realized his front was slipping, just slightly, and tried to relax his posture.

“Do you like—could I get you a drink or something? I’m serious, man, I feel super bad about all this.” And yes, it was completely obvious that Drew felt extremely guilty. It was perfect, because Will was going to use it to his advantage, and make his own life a thousand times easier.

“Actually…” he started, a furrow in his brows as if he were unsure about himself (he wasn’t), “...I was going to ask Landon myself, if he could delete the video. I know it sounds—”

“You want me to delete it? Sure, sure, I mean, I didn’t even want to take it in the first place, but like, when your captain says jump…”

“You don’t ask why, you ask how high,” Will nodded. “Used to be a cop, I know how it works.” He also knew how Jack Crawford worked, but that information was not important to the conversation. 

“You were a cop too?” Drew asked with widened eyes and raised eyebrows. “Damn, and they just locked up their own?”

“What can I say, the media loves a good guy gone bad,” Will joked, despite the blood that was slowly coming to a boil under his skin. 

“Rough…” Drew shook his head. “I can, I can definitely get that vid deleted. Gone for good. I mean, we’ll lose the game, but… this was too far. I was scared the next dare was gonna be like… God, I don’t know, _murder_ , y’know. Or like, roofie a girl or something.”

_Or something_. Will forced his jaw to unclench.

“Just imagine if you got caught,” Will suggested.

“My life would be over.”

“Landon and _Alec’s_ ,” Will forced himself to say, the double meaning of his seemingly unthreatening words thick in his head, “lives too. You’re not only doing me a favor, but you’re also doing your friends a favor.”

“Damn, I never thought about it that way,” Drew titled his head, curiously. “You’re a good guy, Will. Sorry, is it cool if I call you Will?”

“Go ahead, but I doubt we’ll be seeing each other again,” he honestly replied with a half-faked laugh.

“Oh,” Drew huffed in disappointment before coming to better senses. “ _Oh_ , oh yeah, of course. Damn. Yeah, I wouldn’t wanna see the guys that beat me up either.” Drew laughed a bit, and Will laughed with him, clenching the folded up switchblade in his right palm. “Anyway, uh, stay safe man. I’ll make sure that vid disappears. Landon’ll just think he accidentally deleted it, fatfingers and what-not.”

Will slowly nodded. “Nobody else has seen it, right?”

“What, like, other than the three of us?” Drew looked slightly perturbed. “Nah, we don’t share until Sunday. Why’d you ask?”

“I’m trying to rebuild my reputation,” Will elaborated, shoving the hand that held the switchblade into his coat pocket. “A video of me being… well, _beaten to a pulp_ isn’t good for that purpose.”

“Oh… yeah, I wouldn’t want that out there either. And I don’t trust our team to keep quiet, either.”

“Would you make sure they do?”

“What, stay quiet? I mean, like, nobody would believe us if we said we beat up a guy like you without any proof.” At Will’s less than satisfied look, Drew kept talking. “Not to mention Alec wouldn’t dare trash his reputation like that. BS is, like, not a good look on our team. Just, don’t worry about it, I got you, man. This'll stay between us four. I feel bad enough as is.”

Will drew in his brows with his smile, a small, closed mouth one. “Thank you, Drew. I appreciate it.”

“Like I said, no problem, just wanna make it up to you. You’ve definitely got enough crap thrown your way.”

“You can say that again,” Will half-muttered.

“Ha, yeah. Also, uh, I’m sorry about Alec and Landon.”

“Don’t apologize for them,” Will said a bit too quickly, words practically spilling out of his mouth before he was able to reign his front in again. His headache reared its ugly head, and Will tried not to wince in pain as the world suddenly seemed too bright, too much. “Just do what’s best for you.” Will reached out and gave Drew’s shoulder another pat, before moving past him and walking away.

He didn’t need to turn around to know that Drew was watching him go. Will toyed with the switchblade in his pocket as he made his way back to his car, miles away in the snow, and wondered if he made the right decisions. To trust Drew. To let Landon live. To walk away. 

Only time would tell.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

Darkness had overtaken the east coast by the time Will found himself parking outside of Hannibal’s office. The lightly falling snow present in D.C. was absent in Baltimore, but the cold was just as bitter. Will was glad for his new, warmer coat as he stepped out of his car. He debated keeping the switchblade in its pocket, or grabbing his gun from his messenger bag, but ultimately decided that since he was not here to fight, he would not need a weapon. Will wanted to start new, to begin again. He’d done enough bridge burning, and it was time to let the ashes wash away with the waves.

Familiarity washed over him as he made his way into the waiting room, and he fondly ( _coldly_ ) remembered the more naïve version of himself that had once waited there. How long ago it all seemed, how much had changed. He slid off his coat, draping it neatly across his arm, closed his eyes, and inhaled. Exhaled. Double checked his watch.

It was showtime.

He used the back of two knuckles to knock gently on the door, five short times. Will turned around idly as he finished adjusting his sleeves (making sure the bruises on his wrists remained hidden), unsure if Hannibal would make him wait, but sure that Hannibal would eventually answer. And then the door opened.

“Hello, Will.”

He wanted to kill him. He wanted to strangle him, he wanted to see the life drain out of his eyes and he wanted to snap his neck. He wanted Hannibal Lecter to suffer, to be humiliated, to be exposed for what he was. 

“May I come in?” Will managed to ask through his clenched jaw, unsure if his eyes would betray how he truly felt.

Hannibal blinked. “Do you intend to point a gun at me?”

Will couldn’t help the small smile that crept up on his lips, before shaking his head slightly. Oh, how Hannibal knew him. “Not tonight,” he decided on before crossing the threshold into the office. Into Hannibal’s territory.

Will was not the man he once was. No, he wasn’t afraid to turn his back to Hannibal, to gaze around as if this _den_ were his. Because, in some way, pieces of Will had been left behind in this room, pieces he struggled to fully recover, pieces that still lingered like the screen-burn of an old television. This space was familiar, even if it wasn’t his own.

“Are you expecting someone?” Will asked, half wondering if Hannibal had the same idea that Will did.

“Only you,” he replied, and oh, how Will knew Hannibal too.

“Kept my standing appointment open?” Will asked rhetorically. 

“And you’re right on time,” Hannibal confirmed. 

Will’s eyes darted around as he thought about what to say next. No amount of preparation could help him when he was in the same room as Hannibal. No amount of lure perfecting could hone what he felt. Yes, he could control his actions and his words, but to reign in his fury? His pain? Will nearly felt himself choking up before he spoke, barely able to keep his voice steady. He kept his back turned to Hannibal, lest everything spill over before he had a chance to even begin.

“I have to deal with you…” Will said, almost softly, almost as if he didn’t want Hannibal to hear (because, truly, did he?), “...and my feelings, about you.” Will steeled his expression, despite his back still being turned to Hannibal. He could feel the other man’s gaze boring a hole into his skull, looking at all his dark little secrets, completely exposed and ready to be flayed. “I think it’s best if I do that directly.”

Will could hear Hannibal approaching him as he replied, “First you have to grieve for what is lost… and what has changed.”

“I’ve changed,” Will found himself saying, not entirely sure if he wanted to, as he turned slightly to see Hannibal in his peripheral vision. “You changed me.” Will ignored the waver in his own voice.

“The friendship that we had is over. The Chesapeake Ripper is over.”

At the mention, Will felt like he was boiling over again, simmering heat stuck beneath the lid of a pot, threatening to spill and burn. The image of Chilton showing up on his property, covered in blood, flashed in his mind. The news of Miriam Lass, her shooting Chilton… the perfectly molded victim.

“It had to be Miriam, didn’t it?” he, again, asked rhetorically. “She was… compelled to take his life so she could take her own back.

“How will you take your life back?”

Will turned to face Hannibal, eyebrows raising at the question. Of course, he’d answer a question with a question; Will’s own habit had only gotten worse under Hannibal’s care. A thousand other thoughts raced through Will’s mind, concealed by his impassive expression, betrayed by his transparent eyes. 

Half of his mind, rageful and bitter and still full of spite, still full of hatred, screamed about Hannibal ( _I’ll lure you out. I’ll become myself not because of you, but in spite of you. I’ll be personally responsible for the day of your reckoning. I’ll drown you. I’ll drown you in my mind and make sure you never surface again._ ) while the other half, a quieter half, a half he wanted to keep down, keep silent, keep controlled, whispered ( _I’ll torture Alec Sinclair. I’ll kill him and display his pig body like you would have because you were right all along. You always were right. I’ll ask for your help. I’ll become. I’ll take your hand and willingly join you in the deep end: we’ll drown together_ ). 

(Will ignored the third half, for now. The half of ultimatums, a half that led to nothingness. It led down a path he hoped he would not find himself travelling down. A path that ended in the permanent silence of death; no waves and water, no guilt and gravity to hold him down. Nothing at all.)

He would not lie to Hannibal, not tonight.

“I’d like to resume my therapy.”

Will could see the shock on Hannibal’s face, barely there, barely interpretable. So, this wasn’t what Hannibal had expected. How lovely that was. Will laid his coat on the back of his chair and took a seat; Hannibal followed. 

“Where shall we begin?”

The corner’s of Will’s mouth threatened to curl. _Where_ indeed…

“I’d like to present a hypothetical,” Will started, enjoying as he saw intrigue make itself present on Hannibal’s face, “regarding revenge.”

“Francis Bacon once described revenge as a ‘wild justice,’” Hannibal responded when it was clear that Will would not immediately elaborate. “Tell me, Will, do you feel that justice has not been served?”

“Justice is rarely served properly,” Will explained. “But I find myself… disagreeing, with how most people prefer serving revenge.”

“And how is that?”

“ _Cold_ ,” Will bit out, and the word hung in the air like a slowly falling snowflake.

Hannibal nodded, slow and small. “‘Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand; Blood and revenge are hammering in my head,’” he quoted, and Will was satisfied to recognize it as Shakespeare, _Titus Andronicus_. “Do blood and violence haunt your thoughts?”

“Haunt?” Will scoffed. “No. You can’t haunt what’s no longer alive.”

“And you see yourself as dead?”

“I see myself as _reborn_.”

A beat. “Reincarnation implies the death of a previous self,” Hannibal put forward. “Which part of you has died?”

“I believe the better question,” Will said, bitterness seeping into his tone despite his attempts to hold it at bay, “is which part of me _hasn’t_.”

“We often form new selves in the face of great change. Some view this as death,” he said with a small nod towards Will. “Others view it as metamorphosis. Becoming what you have always been meant to be. Is your new self a construct, or is it nature's intended outcome?”

Will thought about it for a moment, let the words comfortably settle in his head. He hadn’t viewed it that way, not yet. Yes, parts of him had been left behind in the BSHCI, but hadn’t that just been him shedding what wasn’t truly his? Getting closer to who he truly was?

(That was a dangerous game to play. Too close and his freshly made wax wings would melt, and he’d come crashing, crashing, crashing down into the deep blue sea. Left to drown amongst the wreckage.)

At his silence, Hannibal continued. “Would you like to discuss your hypothetical?”

That, Will could do. He inhaled, exhaled through his nose.

“Let’s say you’ve been wronged,” Will tentatively began. “Wronged in a way that you never considered. Disrespected and—” _violated_ “—degraded.” Will paused, not purposefully, trying to round up his thoughts lest they all escape and bare themselves to Hannibal.

“Degradation is a natural process in erosion, and often exposes treasures that would usually be hidden beneath the earth,” Hannibal remarked in Will’s silence.

“But this process was not a natural one,” Will countered in his hypothetical.

“And neither are dams or levees, yet we value them anyway.”

“Because they _protect_ us.” Will’s voice rose just slightly, tense.

And Hannibal replied, calm as ever, “Only because they change nature’s course.”

Another pause in the conversation, and Will stood up, finally breaking eye contact. He felt like his brain was on fire and he didn’t even have encephalitis as an excuse anymore. He slowly walked towards the window, eventually crossing his arms and standing still, watching the few people on the street go about their evening. Will’s world (Hannibal's world, _their_ world) was completely removed from everyone.

“Either way, you’ve been… warped, and you want your revenge,” Will continued the not-so-hypothetical hypothetical, voice and expression iced over again. “Yet, this _retribution_ would be dangerous.” Another pause, as Will was unsure how to word what came next.

“Dangerous due to its possible repercussions?” Hannibal guessed, and Will could feel the heat of his gaze on his back. “Or because of its deeper implications?”

“I find myself caring very little about the implications,” Will quietly replied as his vision glazed over slightly, losing himself in the thought of it.

“Then only the repercussions remain.” 

Will turned slightly, again to see Hannibal in his peripheral, and Hannibal took it as a sign to continue.

His lips thinned for a moment before he asked, “Should I be worried, Will?”

“For yourself?” Will pondered, almost surprised at Hannibal’s question. “No, no. As much as it’d _please_ you… this hypothetical is not about you.” 

And how Will drank up the flicker of shock and perplexity ( _curiosity_ ) that momentarily flashed across Hannibal’s face. Hannibal wanted to know, Will could tell, so very badly: _who did what to Will Graham?_ Who, of course, that wasn’t Hannibal. Will always vaguely harbored suspicions regarding Hannibal’s possessive side, but not until now did he truly see it. Hannibal didn’t know, so he couldn’t control Will. That alone was more than empowering. 

“In your hypothetical,” Hannibal ended up continuing, “how is the revenge served?”

Will slowly turned towards Hannibal with a curl of his lips and savored the words as they came out of his mouth. “Boiling hot.”

Hannibal almost looked as if he… _approved_ as he stood and walked over to his desk where his wine glass waited. He spoke a moment later, asking, “Do you watch American football, Will?”

Will was taken aback—visibly—at the change of topic, and he walked back over to his chair as he considered where Hannibal might be taking the conversation. Hannibal produced another glass, and held it up in question. Will nodded, still slightly confused as he sat down.

“I’ve never been a sports fan,” Will settled on as Hannibal poured a glass for Will, thinking back to the Georgetown football team, lacrosse team, three certain lacrosse players. 

“Neither have I,” Hannibal admitted. “Although there was once a player by the name of Jerry Smith that I hold some respect for.” He walked back around the desk, handed the fresh wine glass to Will, and then took his spot across from Will again. “He once said ‘playing with fire is bad for those who burn themselves. For the rest of us, it is a very great pleasure.’”

They both took a sip of wine, and Will wasn’t sure who was mirroring who. He thought about the quote (how Will was in water, and not fire, and how it _fit_ ) as he enjoyed the bold and fruity flavors that danced across his tongue. The last time he had wine was… a long time ago. But he’d just had alcohol the other day—

Will stiffened slightly at the train of thought and immediately weighed it down to the best of his ability, letting it sink into the depths of his mind. He could go down the revenge “hypothetical” and talk about murder in thinly veiled metaphors as much as he wanted, but to think of that night in details, in absolutes, in tangible, real, events that happened to _him_ , not just as a part of his story, his becoming, but as something that—

“Will?” Hannibal asked, a slight tilt in his head. “Have I lost you?”

Will blinked a few times and looked at Hannibal, who had seemingly long since set his wine glass down. Will looked down into his own glass, still mostly full, and stared into the liquid. 

“Gasoline floats,” Will ended up muttering, slightly unsure. “The flames dance on top of the water, but never in it.” 

Yet the flames had invaded him, hadn’t they? Everyone he came into contact with seemed to light a fire in his life. And Will Graham walked away with burns, burns painting his body and mind. Water versus fire. There was something there, at the edge of his mind, something that…

Hannibal’s voice cut through the air, clear into Will’s mind. “The fire may burn, but the sea remains. Do you imagine yourself as the dancing flames or the enduring water?”

“I’m done enduring,” Will slowly realized. “More people drown each year than burn alive.”

“Yet swimming is a hobby, and fire is a force to be feared,” Hannibal continued.

“Because nobody worries when they think they’re in safe waters,” Will concluded.

Will’s answer became clearer than the crystal glass he held in his hand. He took another sip in revelation, in celebration, and swirled the wine when he finished; he ignored the blossoming headache and the sparks of pain behind his eyes that came with the reminder of alcohol.

“How’s Alana?” Will enquired, a new plan formulating in his mind. 

“I would assume she’s well,” Hannibal answered with a glint of curiosity in his dark eyes. 

“Assume?” Will huffed. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell her you said that.”

Hannibal smiled, so slight that most wouldn’t even recognize it; but Will saw it. “She called earlier to inform me of Dr. Chilton's fate.”

Another, more bitter huff from Will. “I can only imagine how pleased that news must’ve made you.”

“For all purposes, it seemed fitting.”

“Right. Eye for an eye and Chilton goes blind,” Will pointed out, taking another sip of wine.

Hannibal’s slight smile deepened, and Will almost mirrored him. He knew that Hannibal would not respond. This particular train had reached the end of its line, Will reminded himself. _The Chesapeake Ripper is over._

“How do rivers lead people to believe that they’re… safe?” Will picked the metaphor back up again.

“If the surface appears calm, there’s no cause to believe violent currents lay beneath.”

Will knew, he _knew_ , but he had still wanted to ask. The words sounded like honey, viscous and sickly sweet, bleeding out of Hannibal’s mouth. 

“And if the surface has been disturbed?” Will questioned.

“Then patience is called upon until the ripples fade away.”

“What about a flood?” Will’s tone took a mildly tense turn, one he hadn’t intended.

“What about it?” Hannibal steadily asked, and Will could see the way the metaphor was fraying at the edges.

“When the river’s flooded, and everyone knows how dangerous it can be,” Will explained. “How does it convince people to come back and swim?”

“Does the river require the presence of others?”

“No,” Will bit out. “But it’ll be _dammed up_ if people think it’s deadly.”

“And destroy the waterfront ecosystem?” Hannibal leaned in slightly, and his stare with Will darkened imperceptibly. “I believe certain individuals with an interest in nature preservation would lobby against the engineers.” Hannibal raised his eyebrows as he drew back again. “Best to let the river run its course and worry less about water levels. Unless there’s rain on the forecast. Is there, Will?”

“No,” Will answered slowly, the implication of Hannibal’s words sinking in. “Only snow.”

“Even better.” Another small smile as Hannibal picked up his glass of wine again. “No one would expect a flood on a day below freezing.”

( _Cold, cold, cold._ )

“Am I… frozen, Dr. Lecter?” Will barely breathed out, and instantly wished he could grab the words out of the air and take them back.

Hannibal considered the question for a moment before answering, “Ice exists as a solid state; you are anything but static, Will.”

The words comforted Will, but he still retorted, “A nice way of saying I’m unstable.”

“Some would argue that instability is a demeaning way to label uniquely unpredictable people.”

“Would you?” Will found himself shifting forward in his seat, the words falling out of his mouth once again, heavily laced with doubt. “Would you argue that?”

“As the nature preservationist would argue for the river.”

Will leaned back again, half-shocked and half-relieved at Hannibal’s answer. He couldn’t help the comfort that spread through his body, top of his head to the tip of his toes, unwanted yet completely welcome; the long lost warmth of a bitter-sweetened friendship.

He let those feelings float slowly down, down, down into the riverbed. Will would plan to keep them among the other bottom feeders and lurking predators of his mind, deep below the surface where his darkest thoughts swam unhindered. The weight of the water would keep them down; lest he sink, lest he drown.

(And he would only drown if Hannibal were to drown with him. Let the current overtake both of them, let it wash them, their secrets, and their sins out to sea.)

“When the flood comes, it won’t discriminate,” Will admitted, his heart picking up slightly. Risky words for a man that usually took little risk.

“It won’t,” Hannibal agreed in a lighter tone, a mild smile gracing his face. “But a gifted swimmer would be able to survive. Wouldn’t you agree, Will?”

“Vehemently.”

Their conversation lulled, both enjoying a comfortable silence, until Hannibal asked, “Our mutual friend Jack Crawford has agreed to dine with me on Sunday. Would you like to join?”

Will hid the conflicting interest and disdain he felt. “Have you… decided on a dish already?”

“Not particularly,” Hannibal admitted, honestly. “Would you have a request?”

“I was planning on going fishing,” Will replied.

“Then I shall cook what you provide.”

Will nodded, slow and sure. “I’ll be there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College athletics knowledge was drawn from personal experience as a student athlete, plus the six years of lacrosse I have under my belt (even though it's only a hobby now). How exactly collegiate lacrosse teams work is beyond me, though, since it's not my main sport. Hopefully nobody is here to point out any possible errors, since this is a fanfiction site and I highly doubt there's a large presence of fellow high performance athletes. 
> 
> On another note, my favorite scenes to write were always the Will and Hannibal scenes; shocking, I know. I lifted some lines from canon (and some details from the script), and I continued to do so for some of the other chapters for the sake of sticking to the show. This story runs alongside canon until the point it completely diverges, so canon lines and plot points either diverge or blend into what I've written depending on the situation. I tried to reduce any jarring disparity by affording the same care and detail of writing for the canon lines as I did for the lines I wrote.


	4. Broken Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violence warning.

On Friday, Will spent more hours asleep than awake. On Saturday, he fished with Jack. On Sunday, he dined at Hannibal’s, fishing with Jack in a different way. Both social events contained their usual dance of words that left Will with a headache. Although, that could still be blamed on the annoyingly persistent concussion. Come Monday, though, the majority of his head pains and sensitivities left him. Only the bruises and scabs on his body remained, and even they were taking their usual course of healing.

Monday marked the start of finals week at Georgetown and all the major universities in the D.C. area. It would be an idiotically risky time to carry out his plans, though. Not only would Alec Sinclair be difficult to locate due to the sporadic scheduling of finals, but it’d coincide too closely with their encounter.

Will was glad to see that the initial panic had finally passed through like the aftershock of an explosion, and the ripples (as Hannibal had put it) had vaguely settled. Patience was a virtue, one that Will would hone to perfection in his time of waiting. He put his trust in Drew Warne, and was hoping that when Sinclair would eventually go missing and show up dead, nobody would look towards Will Graham. And Will could leave everything that happened behind.

The first half of the week passed slowly as the sky remained the same slate grey, low and lonely as it stretched endlessly into the horizon. Tuesday rolled around and Will found himself calling Alana and leaving a voicemail, asking if she would be available to talk. It was an olive branch; he wanted her to trust him, but not because he wished to regain her friendship. Far from it, in fact. All Will wanted was to lead her to vaguely believe that… he was improving, now. Convince her that he was reconciling with Hannibal.

(Because, truly, some part of him was.)

Alana called back on Wednesday while Will was fixing one of his radiators—stupid thing had given out during the night and Will had woken up freezing ( _cold, cold, cold_ ). They agreed on Thursday, and ended up talking over lunch at a very familiar bagel shop on the Georgetown campus. Alana aired something adjacent to sympathy for the _abuse_ he suffered under Chilton; how unethical, how cruel. He played along, insisting that his rekindled therapy with Hannibal was for the best now that the Ripper was over. Alana only seemed halfway convinced, and Will accepted her wariness. It didn’t stop him from insisting that he was doing better.

(Because, truly, wasn’t he? _Wasn’t he?_ )

Will’s phone rang again on Friday morning. The sky was startling blue against the snowblinding ground, the long-holding stratus clouds gracefully dissipating. Jack Crawford, voice tinny over the line, asked for Will’s input at a scene. A few hours later, Will was in a foul-smelling horse stable with a file full of pictures in his hands. The swing of the pendulum against the dark of his eyelids came easier, he idly noticed. Soon after that, Will and Jack were able to find themselves meeting one Peter Bernardone. A sense of connection, similarity fluttered in Will’s chest when talking to the man (like the robin beating, beating, beating against the dead woman’s rib cage, Will longed to set it free). He ended up rescheduling with Hannibal for mid-afternoon, seeing how Will was already close to Baltimore due to the case. They further discussed rebirth, among other topics of murder, lies, and the current investigation. Hannibal was still safe from Will, for now. Now, Will was occupied by a different plan.

(Well. Two plans. He was working on it.)

Saturday was lazy and slow for Will, right up until night fell. Another call brought him to another scene, the site of sixteen graves. He received nothing from the late night excursion except an apology from Zeller that Will didn’t even want. It was technically Sunday by the time he got back home and, for the first time since he started drinking the gag-worthy chamomile tea, he slept terribly.

(A fitful night. Moments he had purposefully dissociated during returned to him in the form of fragmented dreams, unyielding poltergeists that disturbed his rest. The fact that Will saw himself as dead and reborn seemed to have no effect on the echoing ghosts. Reality clashed with the quiet of the stream, and fractals of _what really happened_ cut into his peace like the blade on his lower back. The memory-voice of Alec Sinclair woke Will and left him gasping for air, sweaty, with his mind pulled taut and his body shaking with exhaustion. It wasn’t dissimilar to the way he woke during the days of his undiagnosed encephalitis.)

Yet, it was fine. It was fine, because Will would push those resurfacing (yet never truly forgotten) memories back to the bottom of the stream. Whether they would stay there or wash away, he wouldn’t know. All he had to do was make sure he stayed clear of those pieces of mind-litter.

(It was hard to tread carefully, though, with darkened waters.)

Despite Will’s exhaustion, Sunday continued with a phone call to Zeller; Will toyed with the man’s lingering guilt to call in a favor regarding a certain bird. A short while later, Will was handing the healthy robin over to Peter. It was a trade of information: Peter would gain the knowledge of the bird’s good health, and Will would get to figure out who really killed those sixteen women.

“No—no one will believe me,” Peter said, expression bundled tight and voice laced with nerves. “He'll make sure no one will believe me.”

“I know,” Will agreed, pain in his eyes but voice steady and even. “But I’ll make sure he never hurts anyone ever again.”

Peter looked up, quiet and fearful and figuring out what Will _truly_ meant, intentions hidden behind his carefully iced over eyes. Considering the offer on the table, the robin in the cage.

“All you need to do,” Will continued, tone still calm, controlled, _coaxing_ , “is never tell anyone else.”

“You’re—you’re gonna be another shadow,” Peter continued the metaphor; he stated the words rather than asked because they both already knew the answer.

“Yes.”

A conflicted expression took over Peter’s face as he broke eye contact with Will, struggling, debating, jumping through the same moral hoops that Will was intimately familiar with.

When Peter brought his gaze back to Will’s, there was a new kind of conviction in it. A decision. Will realized that he had seen the look before, too. In the mirror. “Okay… okay. I’ll—I’ll tell you.”

“And nobody else,” Will fished for.

“And nobody else,” Peter confirmed.

Will walked away with the shadow’s name. Clark Ingram. The phrase _wild justice_ flitted about his skull, like the ribcaged robin, as he made his way home. Hannibal’s question from over a week ago burned behind Will’s eyes.

_Do you feel that justice has not been served?_

_No, no, no_ , drummed the righteous fury in Will’s chest. Justice had not been served, and Will could hardly see how it would be served if he handed Clark Ingram over to the FBI for investigation. Men like Ingram, men like Sinclair, men like Lecter hardly deserved the bureaucratic ways of the court and prison system. A life sentence was not enough. It was quid pro quo, blood for blood, eye for an eye. Except this time, Will wasn’t blind. He wasn’t who he used to be, he wasn’t some idiot like Chilton, he wasn’t bound by law like Crawford, he wasn’t even who most people thought he was now. He was more (he was less), he was better (he was worse), and he would have his cake and _eat_ it.

Such is the way of life of the person he was becoming: a predator of predators.

Between what Peter had supplied him and what he had been able to find on his own, Ingram was an easy target. Despite it being Will’s first _true_ venture into the water without his waders, it didn’t quite feel as such. He was long-accustomed to the temperature of these rapids, and stepping into them without the division only felt natural. 

(The naturality of it all was what scared his conscious mind; for necessities sake, he had muffled those thoughts with the resounding drumbeats of _justice_. There would be no hesitation for the sake of Ingram's sentencing.)

Jack had ended up phoning Will (again) to tell him that they arrested Peter, only charging him with desecration of a corpse. Further interrogations had made it abundantly clear that Peter wasn’t capable of the serial murders. Their real killer was in the wind, and Peter wasn’t talking. However, with a decent defense, Peter would be sent to the right kind of hospital, prison, whatever word they wanted to use for it nowadays (Will was still bitter over his time spent behind bars). There was no mention of possible leads, let alone Clark Ingram. Will made a mental note to thank Peter when all of this was over, when the blood had diluted in the water.

Over the course of the next few days of tracking his prey (hunting was different than fishing, but both were past times that required patience), Will swallowed any lingering doubts he had and chased them down with boiling rage. His mind was made up as he dug out the same outfit from _that night_ , the outfit he promised he would only wear once more. Once was now twice, and Will ignored the dizziness that washed over him when he looked down and saw the familiar yet sickening dark blue flannel and warm vest overtop. 

Ingram lived alone, in a suburb house that screamed _I’m normal, totally not a psychopathic serial killer living here_. It yielded no security and no cameras since Ingram was the type of man to bring his prey home. Wouldn’t want his nasty crimes on camera, now would he? 

The place was the opposite of Will’s isolated little house and barn, the opposite of Hannibal’s outré mansion. Ingram’s façade was set in the land of the living, the land of _normal_ people. There was nothing eccentric about the man, no, because there was nothing eccentric to him at all. The pathology was base (boring) and his profile was simple (also boring). His eyes were dead and there was nothing hiding behind them (no secrets to uncover, no ulterior motives to lure out). All Clark Ingram did was abuse his power. _That was it_.

Clark Ingram was not Hannibal Lecter. If anything, Clark Ingram was more similar to Alec Sinclair, lack of cameras and all. Will violently shoved the thoughts away ( _shoved_ , as he had been, _onto the floor_ ) before they could compromise him. 

Either way, Ingram was going to be dead by the end of the night.

Will was waiting, patiently as he did when he fished, in Ingram’s house. The metal bat he held had been procured from Ingram’s own umbrella holder; the nitrile gloves on Will’s hands kept it fingerprint free. The garage door shuttered open, and closed. Will held his breath when he heard the car turn off. Warm rays of light flooded into the room as Ingram came in, but it would not illuminate Will’s hidden spot among the shadows. Ingram stepped forward, one, two, turned to close the door, and— _crack_ , Will’s first swing made hard contact with Ingram’s skull. When Ingram stumbled, nearly falling, Will was oddly relieved that the first hit hadn’t knocked him out (or outright killed him).

Will wanted to enjoy this for a bit, after all. He wanted to make Ingram suffer a short while longer. 

He let the bat ( _the pendulum_ ) swing again, this time deep into Ingram’s chest. Another crack indicated the breaking of ribs or collarbone, or _both_. Will relished in the man’s gasps of pain as he fell to the floor. He wound up for another, and hey, batter batter—! _Swing_ into the _crack_ of Ingram’s now-shattered knee. Will could confidently call that a home run.

Ingram tried to scream, but Will drove the bat downwards, cap first into the man's side and silenced him. He writhed like a worm on the ground, and, oh, a worm he _was_. He was befitting of the same fate he brought upon those sixteen women, he should _know_ what it’s like, know what their dead bodies felt (what their corpses remembered). Let him swallow the dirt and be eaten by the earth. Let it reclaim him as he had stolen _so much_.

Will swung again, the barrel of the bat straight into one of Ingram’s arms, and another wonderfully sickening crack filled the empty air. It sounded like poetry—music— _justice_. Ingram shuddered an inhale, a choking, desperate thing for a writhing, wretched man.

As much as Will wanted to throw the bat away and rip off his gloves, as much as he wanted to pummel his fists into Ingram’s face and watch it _break, break, break_ , as much as he wanted to to make this kill personal, and _intimate_ , he didn’t.

(Because, truly, it wasn’t.)

This was not revenge.

Ingram started to sob, or at least _attempted_ , and it was as pathetic as the man it belonged to. Will almost wanted to snarl at him to _shut up_ , that Ingram brought this upon himself. _Let the punishment fit the crime_ , Will thought as he brought the bat up once again, only to swing it down, down, down into Ingram’s skull. _Crack_ , the loudest of them all.

Ingram went quiet, and so did Will’s mind.

The world had never been so still, before. Not even Will’s breaths, slightly heavy from the exertion, seemed to break the silence. Will wanted to stay in that moment, stay in that hush forever. Inhale, exhale, and let go.

The tranquility receded as the tide, and Will was left in the sands of reality again. He looked down in the lowlight, eyes adjusted, and saw Ingram’s caved in skull, blood and gore seeping onto the tile floor. A quick check of his pulse confirmed that the man was alive, but only barely. Will wasn’t sure if his brain, heart, or loss of blood would be the cause of death, and he honestly didn’t care. Power rushed through Will’s veins, seeing how he had reduced another killer to such a… _degraded_ state. He sighed, almost happily so, and tossed the baseball bat aside. The clatter of its contact with the tile sounding like a sonic boom in the deathly silence. Now, came the real work. 

Avoiding the pool of blood, Will entered the garage. The light was shining, and Will brought a gloved hand up to shield his eyes, adjusting to the brightness. He scanned his surroundings and quickly located what he was looking for. Grabbing the shovel, Will exited the house towards the backyard. It was large and private, surrounded by the mixture of towering pines and thick oaks common to the mid-Atlantic region. There would be no witnesses to Will’s labor.

The ground was hard, frozen from the days of ice and bitter temperatures. It didn’t matter, though. Not this time. This grave would be shallow as the man it would host. This grave would be a sign of disrespect, a signal of the scales being balanced. Whoever eventually discovered the body would not think it to be, but Will would know. It wasn’t artful, it wasn’t complex, it wasn’t _theater_ , but it was something. 

It was a start. 

(Somewhere deep in his mind, Will wondered how Abigail felt when she was digging up Nicholas Boyle’s body. Surely not the lovely calm that Will did. Surely not.)

The ground beneath Will crunched. Each shovelful brought Will infinitesimally closer to the heart of the earth, the molten liquid that laid deep beneath. As the way rivers carve valleys, Will eventually sculpted a three foot grave. Deep enough for Ingram to be covered, to reap what he sowed, but shallow enough for him to be discovered easily, shallow enough that—should he stay undiscovered until the winter ground thawed (he wouldn’t)—the insects would claim and consume his sorry form. 

Ingram hadn’t moved in the many hours it took Will to dig through the frost. Another pulse check confirmed he was dead. Will did not spare Ingram’s body any mercy when he dragged it across the tile and out the back door. With an unceremonious kick, the lifeless body rolled into the grave. Dead eyes stared hopelessly into the clear night sky above, and the singing stars did not echo back. Will looked at Clark Ingram, and for a moment, Alec Sinclair’s face flashed over it. Something in the back of Will’s mind _screamed_ that this fate was not for Sinclair; it wasn’t _enough_. Another second passed, and Hannibal Lecter’s face flashed over Ingram’s, and that was _even more wrong_.

If Hannibal were to die, it would not be from blunt force trauma. Will would not leave Dr. Lecter’s body in a shallow grave. It didn’t fit, it wasn’t _right_.

(If that wasn’t right, what was?)

Will broke away, and followed Ingram’s dead stare to the stars. Breathing evenly, Will took note of the winter constellations that danced across the midnight black. His hands were long numb, cold sweat had collected on his neck, and his arms and back were aching from the tedious gravedigging. Yet he sighed, breath visible in the cold, and smiled. Genuine and content.

It was a beautiful night, and Will was burying a man. Shovel after shovel, back into the hole, to cover up the disgusting person that laid at the bottom. Part of Will wished that Ingram had still been alive for this, part of him wanted the man to suffer even more. The other part of Will was tired, and wanted to go home. Wanted to take a hot shower and see his dogs and go to sleep. The third part wanted to knock down Hannibal’s door, Ingram’s body in tow, and ask him _how would you display this pig_? And as always, three halves did not make a whole, but Will was never a whole person to begin with. He was something more; something less. Something that he couldn’t quite define. Someone even he didn’t truly know.

Filling the grave took a miniscule fraction of the time it took to dig it. Soon, Will was compacting the dirt with his boots, a half-size too big pair of hand-me-downs that Will inherited from his father. They were usually stored deep in a closet, but tied tightly, they worked for tonight. Will wondered if he should immediately dispose of them, or if he should clean them and hide them again if he needed them for a later date. Probably the latter.

Will knew the body would be discovered. Not tomorrow, maybe not even by the end of the week. But Ingram’s disappearance would be noted, and somebody would be sent to check his house. Somebody would notice the car in the garage, the blood on the tile, and the trail that led to the backyard where there was freshly disturbed ground in the shape of a grave. 

Only later, would the maybe-connection come to Peter Bernardone. There would neither be any evidence against Will, nor against Peter. Will could see the local PD, or the FBI (should they, unlikely, get involved as the discovery of Ingram’s connection to the murders; the evidence was easy to find within Ingram’s house if anybody actually _looked_ for it) postulate that _maybe_ one of the victim’s relatives found out and took their rage out on Ingram, and gave him the same treatment he gave those girls. Maybe. If Will ever found himself on the case, that’s what he would say. Mention just how thick the rage seemed in the air, how this was _revenge_.

(Not _justice_ , as it rightfully was.)

Will ended up taking the bat and the shovel with him. He had worn gloves, but the forensic voice in the back of his head told him _that may not have been enough_. It was suspicious, a man walking around at four in the morning carrying a shovel and a bloodied bat, but Will lightly stepped through shadows and side yards until he reached his car, parked on an entirely different side of the neighborhood. He grabbed an errant paper bag from the trunk and wrapped up the bat, tucking it into the trunk with the shovel before starting the long drive back home.

Later that night (that morning), after he had cleaned the bat and was bleaching the sink, Will wished he had left the tools at Ingram’s. His sleeves were pushed up and he was _still_ cleaning. He could’ve been showered and asleep by now, but no, he had to be _safe_ rather than sorry. Will was bleaching his sink, he was bleaching his _damn_ sink and remembering how he had thrown up Abigail’s ear. A new kind of rage bubbled up from the depths, a kind of wrath that mingled with grief and made him want to—

Will turned on the faucet again and let the bleach wash down, washing his emotions away with it. There was no use crying over spilled milk, over things Hannibal had already broken, over things Will could not fix. Just as the woman in the horse’s womb could not be reborn, be brought back, Will could not bring Abigail (he could not bring Beverly) back. All he could do, as Peter Bernardone had done, was make something beautiful out of it. Was murder something beautiful?

( _Yes_ , whispered Will’s shadow with his honey-sick voice, _no artform is more beautiful. Wouldn’t you agree, Will?_ ) 

Once clean, the bat was placed beside Will’s bed, leaned against his nightstand. He’d already washed the shovel off with the hose outside and left it in the barn amongst his other rarely used gardening tools. Both the bat and shovel were common and non-descript, and if someone were to stumble across them, they wouldn’t be able to link either back to Clark Ingram. 

Will triple checked his boots for any stray droplets of blood, and found only a few that were easily cleaned. Like the shovel, the bottoms had been hosed and dried. The boots found themselves at the back of one of his storage closets again, lonely and unloved in the dark. It wasn’t dissimilar to the state Will found himself in after showering and turning off the lights as he tucked in. 

The dark did not last for long, as the sun began to rise just as Will fell asleep. Despite the brightness, his rest saw him through until mid-afternoon. Best of all, his night terrors were blissfully absent. It was as if the silence of death had carried into his dreams, allowing him a lovely sleep in the eye of the storm.

When he woke, a startling sense of independence settled over Will. That was when he realized, with shocking clarity, that his actions indicated three facts (facts, of course, according to Will’s current beliefs, beliefs as malleable as water itself).

One: Will Graham was not Jack Crawford’s man. If he were, he would’ve brought Ingram to Jack and would’ve tried to take him down via the FBI. Will Graham wouldn’t have stalked Ingram for half a week, wouldn’t have waited in his home, wouldn’t have caved his skull in with a metal bat, and certainly wouldn’t have _enjoyed_ it. No, Jack Crawford would want this Will Graham behind bars just as much as Hannibal Lecter. Which brought Will to the next point. 

Two: Will Graham was not Hannibal Lecter’s man. He didn’t need to elaborate on that for obvious reasons. Something about… lacking artistry, or control, or something, or the fact that Will wanted Hannibal dead, dead, _dead_. He wanted Hannibal out of his life, out of his mind, out of his—

(Just. _Gone_.)

Three: Will Graham was his _own_ man. He had forged his own path away from Jack’s overbearing authority and away from Hannibal’s persuasive whispers. Will had made this decision independent of them and carried through with it. Now, the only question that remained was whether or not he wanted to share this with Hannibal, with metaphors and a gift. 

In that moment, still laying in his bed under tangled sheets as he soaked up the afternoon rays of sunlight, Will realized two more terrifying facts. 

Four: Will wanted Hannibal to _understand_. Understand the choices he made, despite their lack of Ripper-esque theatrics. Understand the fine line Will currently danced between justice and revenge, understand where the two merged and blended into one. Understand the way it called to Will and how Will could no longer refuse the answer, not anymore. 

(Hannibal already understood, Will knew. But Will had yet to close the chasm between them, half caused by Will, half caused by Hannibal, and half caused by both. Three halves made the whole of their being, because neither was complete on their own. Hannibal made sure of that. Will made sure of that. They both made sure of that.) 

Five: Will wanted Hannibal to know that Will _truly_ understood now. No longer was Will viewing from a perspective that was not his own, or a perspective covered by a _necessary use of deadly force_. He understood the way the dead echoed the living and the quiet within violence. He understood the desire to answer the call, the want to right the wrong, the need to balance the scales (whatever scales those may be). Long had Will denied the push-pull of his darker tendencies; now all he wanted to do was _bathe_ in them. 

It terrified him.

(Yet he’d never felt as alive.) 

Whether he would show Hannibal by killing him, or tell Hannibal otherwise… Will had time to decide. After all, this was _his_ new life. He was doing this on _his_ time, despite the way time seemed to slip through the cracks of his cupped hands.

Somewhere deep in his mind, within the stream, Will felt a _snap_ and somehow knew that there would be no returning from this crossing, no repairing the line he’d abandoned. It laid broken amongst the shoreline, discarded and forgotten. Basking in the afterglow of murder, Will understood Hannibal in a blinding, new way. And he couldn’t _wait_ for his next session. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter. I’ve always enjoyed writing violence and fight scenes, but I didn’t realize how much of a pleasure it could be to write a kill scene. I know the people following this fic (trust me, I’m seeing all those private bookmarks and subscriptions) aren’t big on commenting, but either way, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter as I did.


	5. Sinking

Some days later, Will woke up, sweat on his forehead and breaths quiet as he stared up into the dark of night. 

_He had killed Hannibal._

It was a beautiful dream, it was a terrifying nightmare, it was both.

Rolling over, he noted the time being well past midnight, but well before a reasonable time to start his day. 

He had time. He had _time_. Will did not have to make a decision right now. The world would spin according to him and nobody else. It was what he kept telling himself, as he avoided the dilemma at hand. Turning onto his back again, Will closed his eyes and let his troubles wash downstream for a future version of himself to deal with.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

The temperature continued to drop as the days marched forward into deep winter. The reprieve of blue skies quickly disappeared behind dark, foreboding clouds, with more snow carried within. The drive to Baltimore was long, and the air surrounding Will was heavy with knowledge and a decision. A clean metal bat occupied the passenger seat, invisibly marked with death and revelations.

His head was clear but _full_ when he arrived at Dr. Lecter’s office. Will put hardly any effort into concealing the bat in his coat. If tonight contained death, it would contain the death of Will as well. His freedom, his reality, whatever it was. If Hannibal Lecter died tonight, a part of Will Graham would die too.

Will wasn’t sure if he was okay with that, especially since he still had so many unfinished plans to carry out. 

(Then why have the bat at all? Why did he have to lie to himself to the very end?)

He was holding it by the barrel, coat across his arm, when Hannibal opened the door to the waiting room. A flick of Hannibal’s eyes informed Will that he _saw_ , but the hint of worry turned to confusion at Will’s relaxed posture and non-threatening gaze.

“Will,” he started in that honey-sick voice of his. “Am I in danger?”

**_Yes._ **

_Maybe._

“No,” Will replied with the slightest of smiles, and Hannibal let him into the office. Crossing the room at an unhurried pace, Will deposited his coat on the back of the chair as he did every session, yet stayed standing. Hannibal was across from him, subtly tense. Waiting. Two predators, sizing each other up.

But a fight would not happen.

Will held the bat out, handle pointed towards Hannibal. There was a question in Hannibal’s eyes, a myriad of questions, but Hannibal did not voice them. 

They both understood what this was.

_An offer._

Hannibal accepted the bat, and Will let go. He sauntered over to the windows again as Hannibal examined the gift.

“An interesting choice,” Hannibal remarked, “with a faint smell of bleach.”

Will did not respond. He watched as the snowflakes danced outside, danced as the stars did behind the darkness of clouds, danced as Will and Hannibal did.

“Has the revenge ceased its hammering in your head?” Hannibal questioned, and Will could hear him set the bat down on his desk. Gently, as if it were a treasure.

“No.” Cold, hushed, bitter as the world outside. Will crossed his arms as his stare narrowed.

“Yet you wielded death in your hands,” Hannibal quietly noted, an apt deduction as he slowly made his way to the windows and settled just beside Will. “Was it the reckoning you promised yourself?”

A pause from Will before he replied, even colder than before, “It wasn’t.”

Hannibal considered it for a moment. “What was it, then?”

Will inhaled, slow and unsteady. He turned his head, just slightly, towards Hannibal.

“It was…” Will started, voice so soft that he could barely hear himself, “... _wild justice_.”

“But not revenge,” Hannibal clarified.

“Not revenge,” Will confirmed.

Their words were hushed, sharing secrets of slaughter and the silence found within.

“Tell me. What did it feel like?” Hannibal finally asked, the air filled with something so thick and unknown that Will didn’t know what to label it.

“I felt…” Will started as held back a shudder, “...a quiet sense… of _power_.” 

Will finally met Hannibal’s gaze, and he only saw a reflection of himself.

“Good,” Hannibal’s dulcet tone affirmed. “Remember that feeling.”

Will sighed through his nose as he looked away from Hannibal. “It’s impossible to forget.”

Silence enveloped the two as Will studied the falling snow and as Hannibal studied Will. The crackle of the fireplace was distant, from the other side of the office, but Will still felt a heat crawling up his body. Boiling waters from the chasmic depths of his being were surfacing; more accurately, he was sinking into the fevered abyss. Will noticed the sheen of burning, unshed tears in his glass-reflected self, and he wasn’t sure _why_. All he knew is that it was _too much too much too much_ —

“Will,” Hannibal spoke, and Hannibal gently took hold of the back of Will’s neck, directing him to look, directing him to see. “Stay here.” They were close, so close that their foreheads nearly touched, two minds bleeding into one. “You’ve done well.” The words sparked through Will like electricity shooting through water, and once again, Will could not meet Hannibal’s eyes for fear of seeing _too much_ , too soon. “With all my knowledge and intrusion, I could never entirely predict you. I can feed the caterpillar, whisper through the chrysalis, but what hatches follows its own nature and is beyond me.”

“And…” Will began, barely holding back the way his voice shook, “...what has hatched?”

“Your true self.”

Will closed his eyes and broke away from Hannibal’s hold, a shaky sigh escaping his lips. His steps were more hurried than usual when he walked away from the window, and Will couldn’t stop from burying his head in his hands when he took his seat. 

Will _couldn’t_ do this. 

He couldn’t _do_ this. It was too much, too much below, too much he was trying to keep buried on the riverbed. If he dove below, let himself fall, sink into the deep below, he would be unable to hide his face from other fractal facts in the clear depths. He couldn’t hide from himself if he went under. He couldn’t hide from Hannibal. He couldn’t hide from… the _thing_ between them. And he certainly couldn’t hide from the trauma he was denying, refusing to accept. 

He’d be swept out to sea and he’d lose himself if he accepted that. He didn’t want to lose what he just gained. Will Graham couldn’t lose himself, not again, not _ever_ again.

“ _Will?_ ” he heard faintly, distantly, yet entirely too close at the same time. “ _Will._ ”

Will looked down, looked down at the water that surrounded his ankles, rising with each passing second. Rising to his knees, his hips, his waist, his chest, his neck, his head; he took one last gasping breath and closed his eyes before he was consumed entirely.

The freshwater surrounded him and he could feel it’s quiet pressure, both comforting and terrifying, as paradoxical as Will, as Hannibal, as both of them. He had to open his eyes, he had to open them and face everything he had thrown to the riverbed, everything he had left to be carried out to the ocean deep. 

“ _I’m here, Will._ ”

But he would not be facing those demons today.

He opened his eyes to Hannibal’s office, head still in his hands, grip so tight on his curls that his scalp ached. Hannibal knelt before him, one hand on Will’s knee, the other on Will’s back. The touch was frighteningly soothing, and Will trembled through an inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. 

Hannibal tilted his head and spoke with the hint of a smile, “Welcome back.”

Will let his grip on his hair loosen with a slow exhale, trying to collect himself. He didn’t need to look at Hannibal to know that the man was staring deeply at Will.

“Where did you find yourself?” Hannibal finally asked. His words were so precisely chosen; _find_ yourself, as opposed to _lost_. 

Will took another breath in, out, in, before answering, “ _Under_.” Will hurriedly tacked on, “I’m still _there_.”

“I’m there with you,” Hannibal consoled, and Will, Will still _couldn’t do this_. “It must be difficult, when your stream no longer is a place of solace.”

“ _Difficult_ ,” Will replied, keeping his words as controlled as possible, “does not even scratch the surface.”

“Then what does?”

Overwhelming. Exhausting. Insurmountable. _Degrading_.

“Impossible,” Will eventually settled on.

“Nothing is impossible,” Hannibal countered, “unless you believe it to be.”

“Fake it ‘til you make it, Doctor?” Will jibed with an incredibly shaky laugh, finally glancing up and looking Hannibal in the eye. He wasn’t ready for what he ended up _seeing_.

Hannibal was worried. He was disquieted—not in regard to himself, but to Will. He could tell that Will was shaken, shaken to his very being, but Hannibal still had no clue why. Was it the act of murder? Will’s betrayal of the law? The revelations that followed? The _offering_?

(Or something else entirely?)

Will didn’t know how to tell Hannibal that there were too many reasons to explain. There were too many things, heavy and hurting and holding him down, that he couldn’t even admit to himself. A thousand words sat unspoken in the charged air.

Hannibal shook his head slightly with his reply, a mild, concerned smile gracing his lips, “It isn’t fake if it’s your own truth. You only need to recognize it as such.”

_It isn’t fake if it’s your own truth._

Will _had_ been faking it.

Up until he wasn’t.

Will fully brought his head out from the deathly grip of his hands and sat up straighter, resting his forearms on his thighs. Hannibal mirrored him, and drew his hands away from Will. Unsure as to why, Will found himself missing the warmth of contact. 

Feeling clearer of mind, Will swallowed down his lightheadedness and spoke again. 

“My peace of mind comes at a high price,” Will explained. “And even then, I doubt I’ll ever find the same… _tranquility_ I once did.”

“As we’ve discussed,” Hannibal quietly reminded him, “you’ve changed. Perhaps your definition of peace has changed as well.”

Will sat back in the chair, settling in as he absorbed _that_ idea. Hannibal took Will’s withdrawal as an opportunity to stand up and retake his spot, seated across from Will. Idly, Will realized he appreciated the… kindness, Hannibal had shown. Kindness wasn’t the right word, Will knew, but he couldn’t think of what was. Pity? Consideration? Friendliness? A collection of synonyms jumped around his head, but none of them fit.

He watched Hannibal watch him. Will almost mirrored the other man when he crossed one leg over the other.

“I feel like my entire sense of direction has changed,” Will admitted, honestly. “True north has irreversibly shifted.”

Hannibal gave him that one curious look, the one where Hannibal knew, or at least _thought_ he knew the answer, but wanted to see if Will could figure it out for himself (if Will could figure _himself_ out). “Where does the needle point now?”

( _You_.)

No. No, no, _no_. Will… Will _hated_ Hannibal, wanted him dead, wanted to strangle him, wanted to—

Will recalled the dream, the nightmare, he had the other night. Where he had reduced Hannibal to nothing but gushing blood and bits of gore and bone. Where tears had threatened to fall. Where he woke up sweating and scared that Hannibal was gone. Oh, it had felt glorious, it had felt righteous; but in the brief moments between the hazy dreamscape and the lucid waking world where Will honestly believed that Hannibal was dead…

(He had never felt so much fear in his entire life.)

The dance could not end. It _would_ not end. Will did not want it to end, despite the pain, despite the guilt, despite the wrath, despite, despite, _despite_. Hannibal was true north. Will knew that he would always find his way back to him, someway, somehow. 

And that _hurt_.

That hurt more than anything that had happened in the past few weeks _combined_.

Will could not admit that to Hannibal. He could barely admit it to himself (like most things in his life, and what a terrible pattern that was). Instead, he made sure the ripples in the water of his mind stilled before speaking again, and lied by omission.

“Partially towards myself.” And it was true, because part of him was inherently tied with part of Hannibal. The three halves of an impossible equation, only impossible if Will insisted it was so. “Certainly not towards the FBI or Jack,” Will continued with an almost disbelieving smile. Was that his voice, speaking those words? It had to be, because it was his mouth that was moving.

The glint in Hannibal’s eyes and the slight thinning of his lips let Will know that Hannibal caught on. There was something Will wasn’t saying; but what Will said was enough for now.

“What would Jack have to say about your newfound loyalties?” Hannibal asked, the intentions behind the question obvious.

“ _Jack_ ,” Will all but spat out, and he could feel the slightly frustrated look overtaking his face, “does not need to _know_.”

At Hannibal’s pleased look, Will felt himself calming, echoing him in appearance. 

“Jack would argue he does,” Hannibal continued. “How will you deal with him, when he comes knocking at your door?”

Will’s face broke into a smile, an actual, genuine, toothy smile as he laughed slightly and looked away from Hannibal, then back at him again.

“I wouldn’t hurt Jack,” Will admitted. “Not like that.” Hannibal hid his disappointment well, but Will could still see it. “When Jack comes knocking—” Because Hannibal was right, it wasn’t _if_ , it was _when_. “—I will make sure that the OIG knocks back. I’m sure the investigations division would have a field day with my situation.”

“And what situation would that be?” Hannibal fished, and Will realized that it was all over.

(Truly over.)

His lure was perfect, as perfect as it could be all things considering, but it didn’t matter. Will didn’t want to fish anymore.

He felt strongly about Hannibal. _Hate_ was a word that encompassed how strongly he felt. And he’d decided, he’d decided long before this individual moment that if this were to all fall apart, it would be between the two of them. Only the two of them. Leave Jack Crawford and the hounds of the FBI apart; they didn’t know the steps to this dance. 

It was only Will, and it was only Hannibal. Only them. 

“I think my report would include the details of Jack Crawford’s…” Will started with his admission, “...forced, and illegal investigation. How he roped me into investigating _you_.” Will huffed in an obvious show of fake disbelief before continuing, “Even after the real Chesapeake Ripper was apprehended and even after I took back my initial accusation, Jack still pushed.” Will shook his head. “I don’t understand how he could still... _believe_ my false claim when it became clear how Dr. Chilton was using psychic driving to plant the idea in my head in the first place.”

“How unethical,” Hannibal remarked dryly.

“My thoughts exactly,” Will grit out as some thoughts of strangulation came to mind. A glance at the metal bat sitting on Hannibal’s desk reminded Will why he was here in the first place.

A momentary silence draped around the both of them before Hannibal finally spoke up.

“Will.”

“Yes?” Will asked, anticipation rushing in his veins.

“I’m sorry to say that our time is up.”

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

“So it is,” Will responded with a glance at his watch.

“Usually I would insist upon you staying for a drink,” Hannibal continued. “But a new patient has taken up the slot after yours.”

“Have they?” Will questioned with a furrow of his brows as he met Hannibal gaze, sharp as the scalpel Hannibal kept on his desk.

“Will,” Hannibal insisted, eyes amber in the lowlight, “I’m not lying.”

Will nodded as he stood up and gathered his coat from the back of the seat.

“However,” Hannibal continued, standing and rebuttoning his suit jacket, “I would be delighted to have your company later this evening, should you be free. I believe it would be fruitful to continue our conversation.”

A wave of dizziness washed over Will as he stilled for a moment. “I guess I could… linger around Baltimore until you’re finished here.”

Hannibal smiled at him, warm and pleased again, “Would dinner suit you?”

“That depends on what you’re serving,” Will said with a blank face as they both made their way, slowly, towards the exit.

“I was thinking vegetarian tonight.” And that was as much of a white flag Will was going to recieve. 

“Sounds good,” Will affirmed, mind somewhat vacant.

“I’ll let you know when I’m on my way home.” 

“Great,” Will’s brain supplied, emptily.

Hannibal opened the door for him, “Stay safe until then.”

“Of course.”

He could feel Hannibal’s gaze on his back for a few moments, as he left down the hallway. As usual, Will didn’t mind. He carried himself down the stairs on autopilot, and took a moment in the building’s foyer to put on his coat and winter apparel again. Will’s mind was racing, yet so desperately hollow as his thoughts swarmed like piranhas to his wounds in the water. The cold greeted him like an old friend, wrapping completely around him. An exhale revealed his breath, and he tried to compose his thoughts before he made the walk to his car.

“I tend to walk out of this building in a very similar state,” somebody was saying, apparently to _him_. Will turned and looked at the woman, catching her eyes for only a moment before glancing elsewhere. “You must be a patient of Dr. Lecter’s,” she said as Will noted that she was dressed in expensive garments and toting around a handbag that surely cost more than Will’s car. 

“I’m sorry?” Will found himself saying, asking, his thoughts coalescing. She hadn’t introduced herself, right? He couldn’t remember hearing her say a name.

“You look familiar. I either know you or I know of you…” she trailed off, and Will didn’t have the patience for her anymore.

“I’m the guy who didn’t kill all those people,” Will bitterly revealed before walking away, not giving her a second thought. _Those_ people were the key words of his statement; he certainly was guilty of killing others.

He soon found himself in his car and driving around the nicer parts of downtown Baltimore until he spotted a chain coffee shop, open 24/7. He parallel parked and headed in, relieved at the warmth inside the building. As usual for the late hour, he ordered decaf. One sip after settling down in a quiet corner of the shop, he decided it wasn’t good. 

(Another pattern, Will realized. Little seemed to taste good nowadays.)

Will didn’t exactly know what he should be preparing for, in his and Hannibal’s continued discussion. Was Hannibal going to kill him for his admission regarding Jack? Or would they simply extend their usual session and get lost in their artful (and safe) metaphors? He had no clue. Hadn’t he just assured himself that he wasn’t going to be blind anymore? He felt blinded now, blinded by his own shut eyelids. Will usually called the feeling that rushed through his veins _hate_ , but it somehow didn’t feel right at the moment. It was a building… friendship. Alliance. An _understanding_. And how lovely it felt to be understood.

He pulled out his phone from his coat pocket and set it on the table, carefully, as if it were a ticking time bomb. 

A part of Will, a small, society obligated part of him, was yelling at the top of his lungs. It was idiotic, exposing Jack and his plans to Hannibal. It was idiotic and impulsive and Will wanted to take the words back, wanted to undo the murder he committed a few days ago, wanted to fix this mess he was in. 

Another part… another part was deathly calm because he knew, intrinsically and instinctively, that this was a better route to take. Again, if he wanted to kill Hannibal, he could. Eventually. He would have the knowledge to kill Hannibal, dispose of (or display) the body, and try and forget everything. It was a ‘keep your friends close but your enemies closer’ type of thought process. And Will could slowly distance himself from Jack, slowly try to steer Jack away from any thoughts regarding Hannibal Lecter as the Chesapeake Ripper. If Jack refused, Will would take it up with his superiors, with the OIG, with Alana (now, there was an avenue Will hadn’t fully considered yet), with anybody that would _listen_. Everybody could forget. Everybody could move on. And Will would remain to deal with the monster. 

After all, what better to stop a monster than another monster? Will was certainly heading down that path already. 

Then there was the issue of Alec Sinclair. Exhaustion washed over Will at the thought of his plan. He didn’t want to ask Hannibal for help. He didn’t. 

(But he did. And he needed to.)

For his plan, Will would need someplace isolated or private, someplace where screams would not be heard. Someplace where a person could be kept captive for… a while, if need be. Someplace where Will could learn just which forms of torture he preferred. Someplace where Will could experiment and safely pursue his revenge in _peace_.

Will had toyed with the idea of using his barn, but a scream could carry for miles on the quiet of his property. Not only that, but Sinclair would certainly fall victim to hypothermia before Will could possibly reach an adequate amount of doled out retribution. And, well, it was incredibly risky. Will didn’t have the luxury that Hannibal Lecter must have; all Will had was an easily broken padlock and an old barn. If somebody were to snoop around, somebody with curly red hair… 

That was an easy way for Will to find himself behind bars, and an easy way for Sinclair to walk away a _survivor_ of _psychopath Will Graham_ , and how _horrific_ , and how _traumatizing_ of an experience. The hypothetical headlines and article summaries made Will sick just imagining them. That would _not_ happen. 

Any other option was not truly viable. Risk of discovery, be that Sinclair or Graham, would be far too high and Will was not the type of man to gamble. Not when the life he wanted to take was worth so _little_.

He sighed as he continued to drink the decaf, letting his gaze settle on nothing in particular. Ask for help, don’t ask for help, ask for help, don’t ask for help. Pride wasn’t Will’s sin, but in the moment, it felt like it.

Will’s phone vibrated, and the noise resounded on the metal table. He reached for it, fast, and read the message as if it were his last.

_Hello Will, I’ve finished with my last patient for the evening. I’ll be able to meet you at my house in fifteen minutes._

Fifteen minutes. Will glanced at his watch, considered the distance to Hannibal’s house, and was grateful that the man lived in the city. Will tossed the remainder of his coffee on the way out, and wondered if he could ask Hannibal for an espresso shot after dinner. Will still had to drive home, after all.

_I’ll be there soon_ , Will texted back once he shook himself out of his dawdling thoughts.

A short drive later, Will found himself parked on the street in front of Hannibal's house. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins as his mind was still unsure if he _should_ expect a fight. He should, he felt like he should, but… it would make no sense. Will wasn’t here to kill Hannibal. Hannibal surely wouldn’t kill Will, admission aside. Then why the anxiety? Why the hum in his veins that told him to fight, to flee? 

(To freeze, as Will had so brilliantly decided on a few weeks ago.)

_No_. Not anymore, not tonight. He didn’t have enough energy to deal with… to deal.

He didn’t see the Bentley in front of Hannibal’s house, but Hannibal usually parked in the attached garage around the corner _anyway_. Checking his watch, Will noted how sixteen minutes had passed since he received Hannibal’s text. No more procrastinating. Time to face whatever it was he was going to face.

Will didn’t even have a chance to knock on the front door before it was opening, and Hannibal was standing there, out of his suit coat and into his apron already. He welcomed Will in as Will went about hanging his coat and scarf on the hanger in the foyer. This was familiar. They both knew this routine, this dance, only now there were less walls between the two. Less lies. Less… means of manipulation. 

(Or, someone could argue, there were more.)

Will took a seat at the counter as Hannibal moved about the kitchen, another _den_ , in an artistically controlled composition. Like everything in Hannibal Lecter’s life, this was theater. Hannibal had slid a glass of white wine towards Will in their nearly companionable silence. Will drank it if only to chase away the taste of God-awful decaf since he knew that he didn’t need the alcohol. In fact, he hadn’t had any at all save his encounters with Hannibal. What a terrible influence the good doctor was.

Watching Hannibal work in the kitchen was always something that felt too elaborate, too complex, too showy. Will understood, of course, that this was Hannibal’s domain where he garnered complete control. From the choice of meat, to the recipes, and to the plating, everything had a place and everything had an order. Despite the grandeur of it all, the whole process never seemed wasteful. It was another form of elevation, of creation and art.

Hannibal seemed to be true to his word when he stated that dinner would be vegetarian. With no offer to sous-chef, and with zero interest to request, Will only watched closely as Hannibal tossed a variety of fresh vegetables with spices and salt. Once those were slid into the oven in a deep baking pan, Hannibal retrieved what looked like pre-made pasta from the refrigerator and some kind of (also pre-made) butter. It wasn’t the type of pasta that Will would buy in a box at the store, no, but rather the homemade type that was stored in a glass container. The term _meal-prep_ floated around Will’s brain aimlessly before he realized that pasta wasn’t stored in the fridge. Some kind of dough, maybe? Whatever it was, it was now being pan-fried in a cast iron skillet among the butter and a myriad of spices that Will hadn’t been paying close attention to. Anything could be in the spices. Will wasn’t sure what, but he was sure there was some way to incorporate human pieces with spices. Right? Right. He wasn’t being paranoid. Hannibal wasn’t… that wouldn’t happen tonight. 

Somehow, Will had a feeling that cannibalism wouldn’t happen unless Will supplied the meat himself. And if that didn’t leave a weird feeling in his gut, he didn’t know what would.

Hannibal tended to the pan-frying… dough pieces. Pastas. Whatever they were. Will continued to watch as Hannibal took the vegetables out of the oven and added them to the pan. The lovely aromas of spices and vegetables filled the air, and Will felt a mild pang of hunger (his first in _weeks_ ) at the delectable scents.

“You seem to be lost in thought, Will. Care to share with the audience?” Hannibal ended up asking out of the blue, looking up from the pan and truly _looking_ at Will. He’d been glancing at Will every so often for the past… while. However long this cooking process was taking. Will had noticed, but he hadn’t felt the need to comment. Now, though.

“Just observing,” Will answered nonchalantly and took another drink of wine.

Hannibal nodded despite obviously being discontent with the answer. It wasn’t a lie, Will truly was just observing. Observing allowed him to focus on the exterior, rather than whatever was going on in his head, in Hannibal’s head, both of them.

“You’ve been retreating, recently,” Hannibal mentioned, almost quietly. 

“Have I?” Will asked, and he wasn’t sure if it was sarcastic or not. He wasn’t necessarily losing time as he once did, but time often slipped away from him nowadays. How easy it was to get lost in the stream.

“Are you losing time?” Hannibal questioned, genuinely, and Will felt a spark at how similar their trains of thought were at times.

“No, no,” Will assured him. “Only thinking.”

“You were non-responsive for nearly thirty minutes in my office today.”

( _What?_ )

That. Couldn’t be… right? No. Thirty minutes? He… he hadn’t spent that long stuck in the stream. Only a couple minutes, sinking beneath the surface, lost to the current. 

Hannibal returned his gaze to the pan, but his voice was still low and grim as he continued, “At first I was worried the encephalitis had returned—”

“It’s,” Will cut in, “not encephalitis.”

“I agree. You’re displaying none of the symptoms,” Hannibal confirmed, but Will didn’t let that comfort him the slightest. “Then I considered shock—”

“Not that either,” Will hastily replied. “I… came into possession of the bat a few days ago.” Hannibal seemed slightly curious at that, but before he could comment, Will continued, “In fact, I felt better than I’d been in weeks, right after I obtained it.”

Hannibal’s eyes slid up to catch Will’s in a controlled fashion, and Will could see the darkness that swam beneath. So close to the surface, yet so deep, deep, deep below. How Will longed to never reach those depths; how he longed to one day find himself in the same abyss. 

“The quiet sense of power, you mentioned,” Hannibal noted as he returned his gaze to the stovetop again.

“Yes,” Will said, mind nearly absent and voice distant. “It was… so still.”

“Calming, some would say,” Hannibal softly tacked on.

“The quiet within the violence.” Will was staring into nothing, and his voice was hardly his own anymore.

“Will,” Hannibal said in a slightly louder, more authoritative voice than before. “Do not succumb to the pull of the riptide, not when you’ve yet to learn how to control the current.”

The current, don’t, no, he didn’t want to be dragged under, not again. Not here, not now, not ever. It was too dangerous for now, he couldn’t trust what lurked beneath. He couldn’t trust himself, he couldn’t trust Jack, he certainly couldn’t trust Hannibal, he couldn’t trust himself, he couldn’t trust anybody—

“ _Will_ ,” Hannibal urged, and Will snapped back into reality when Hannibal placed a hand over Will’s own. _Grounding_ , Will realized. 

Looking down at the hand over his own, Will blinked, once, twice, before shaking his head slightly and furrowing his brows. He let his eyes close for a moment before he slipped his hand away from Hannibal’s and brought it up to pinch his nose bridge. Inhale, exhale.

“You’re unwell,” Hannibal commented, and Will noticed how the stove was off, the sizzling of whatever in the pan silenced. The kitchen felt quiet, but not in the comforting way. This kind of silence was nearly overwhelming.

“I’m fine,” he insisted as he brought his hand away from his face, because if he said it, if he believed it, it had to be true. Hadn’t that been Dr. Lecter’s advice?

“Lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to me,” Hannibal responded, but it wasn’t argumentative in any form. It was… _persuasive_. It was Hannibal trying to convince Will that he _knew_ despite the fact that Will refused to say anything. It was Hannibal trying to coax Will into sharing his troubles; you can lead a horse to water... 

Will refused to respond. Hannibal obviously wanted to poke and prod more, but capitulated for the moment as he returned to his cooking. The two settled back into silence as Will watched Hannibal begin plating. Minutes later, the leftover parts of the dish were set aside, and Hannibal dismissed Will and Will’s half empty wine glass to the dining room. 

Will took his usual seat, to the right of the head, at the already set table. It was more subdued than Hannibal’s usual setups, and Will suspected it was due to the impromptu dinner offer. Hannibal hadn’t been expecting company, certainly not _Will’s_ company. That didn’t mean the table (and food) lacked the usual Hannibal Lecter-esque artistry and morbidity, no, it was just… artistically subtle. 

Hannibal joined Will moments later, his apron replaced by his suit jacket. A dish was set in front of Will, and Hannibal took his place across from Will with his own. It reminded Will of their therapy sessions, their conversations. Always across from each other, always reflected, always on the other side of the glass. Will wondered if they’d ever be on the same side one day. He hoped it’d never come to that. 

“ _Gnocchi Parisienne_ , made from _pâte à choux_ and sautéed in brown butter, lemon, and fresh parsley. Served with a vegetable bake of zucchini, asparagus, onions, bell pepper, spinach, and mushrooms.”

Will huffed, almost entertained at the dish description. Even something as simple as… what _truly_ was a form of pasta and vegetables was still afforded the same complexities as when Hannibal prepared and served human heart. The same theatrics as his kills as the Chesapeake Ripper. 

“ _Bon appétit_ ,” Will ended up saying, now knowing that this was a Parisian dish. Or, a Parisian version of an Italian dish (he’d learned _some_ things from their dinners, after all). 

The lack of conversation from the kitchen carried over to dinner, and Will found himself and Hannibal starting dinner in relative silence. The food, of course, was delicious and Hannibal lacked the smug and attentive look he usually had whenever the meal had been cannibalistic in nature. Will would’ve gladly let the conversation stay dead, but Hannibal _obviously_ had other plans. 

“I forgive you, Will,” Hannibal said after a particularly thoughtful sip of wine. Something was swimming deep in Hannibal’s eyes, something Will couldn’t entirely read (or, rather, refused to fully understand). 

Will swallowed his bite. Hannibal… forgave Will? Just like that? Betrayal and attempted murder by proxy all just water under the bridge? 

“You don’t do forgiveness,” Will found himself retorting.

Hannibal agreed with a subtle nod. “I’ve always made exceptions for you.”

“ _Exceptions_ ,” Will huffed. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“It’s the label I’m choosing for now.”

Will sat back in the dining chair, setting his fork down with a soft clink. “You can’t expect me to believe you.”

“I could say the same about you,” Hannibal replied. “After all, trust is earned.”

“Do you have any… suggestions on how we can earn each other’s trust?” Will found himself asking.

“Not at the current moment,” Hannibal admitted, and Will felt relieved at the casual honesty in his voice. Hannibal was _letting_ himself be read easily right now. It was the start of trust, whether Hannibal consciously recognized it or not. Will… Will could deal with that. “I believe it would be best if we seized a naturally risen opportunity.” Will nodded slightly at Hannibal’s idea as he continued, “However, if you’d like to expedite the process, I suggest you ask your question.” 

Will let a curious expression fall over his face. “What question?”

“The one you’ve wanted to ask all evening despite how much it scares you. Your fear has a very distinct scent, Will, and I can only imagine what frightens you. Certainly not death, murder, or the intriguing states that lay in-between.”

The words felt like a slap to Will’s face, but he buried his fear (an emotion Will hadn’t recognized in himself, an emotion that Hannibal had to point out for him) and responded, “I believe you might fear something similar, Dr. Lecter.” 

“A loss of freedom,” Hannibal posited, as if admitting the fear was so easy. Will was almost jealous. “Or perhaps a loss of self.” 

“I’ve already accepted myself,” Will half-lied, “but I know what it’s like to be thrown behind bars. I _don’t_ want that to happen again.” With his piece said, Will sat forward again and took another forkful of food. 

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your plans must be highly compromising then.”

“They are,” Will replied, jaw tense, after swallowing down the bite.

“Dare I ask what this person did to invoke your wrath?”

The question wasn’t antagonistic. Hannibal’s face was calm and almost… friendly. He only wanted to know who could drive Will to abandon his long-held society instilled morals (who _wasn’t_ Hannibal himself). It was only curiosity and it wasn’t supposed to hit a nerve. 

But it did. 

Will’s fork hit the plate with a tension-shattering clang and the dining chair made an ugly noise when he pushed away from the table. The formerly delicious food now felt like a rock in his stomach, with the aftertaste being ash on his tongue. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was going to go yet, just that he needed out of the room, away from Hannibal’s heavy gaze and the pressure that filled the room. Long strides, neither hasty nor Will’s usual steady pace, carried him down the hallway, into the foyer, out the front door, and into the winter eve. 

The bitter cold was a sharp shock back into reality. Will stood on the front stoop with his hands on his hips as he tried to collect himself. Each shaky exhale was visible in the freezing conditions and the icy wind cut through his sweater and Henley like it was nothing but decorative paper. 

What was he _doing_?

(He wasn’t coming to terms with his situation, his feelings, his _anything_.)

He was calming down, lest he do something incredibly idiotic and impulsive. Well, something more idiotic and impulsive than what he’d already done this evening. Will brought up his quickly-cooling hands to rub his face and eyes, trying to snap himself out of… whatever this was.

( _A response to trauma_ , the more logical side of his brain informed him, _especially to a trauma so deeply and continually repressed_.)

When he dropped his hands, he quickly tucked them away in crossed arms. Will didn’t want to see how they were shaking, and not even from the frigid temperature. Inhale, exhale. 

( _You’re unwell_ , also echoed within his skull. _You’re unwell. You’re unwell. You’re unwell._ He knew, he knew, he knew he was lying to himself, lying to himself about so many things that he didn’t know where to start. But where do you start when your entire sense of self was based on lies? An entire life of constructing a false identity, and then overnight he’s supposed to suddenly… _become_? No. This was not that. This was the months of non-consensual psychotherapy, the unending weeks trapped behind bars, and the ever-counting days of trauma denial. All building to whatever was happening in his life now.)

Will told himself he should head back inside, apologize for abruptly leaving the table, how _rude_ of him, _so sorry Dr. Lecter, it won’t happen again_. The falsities would be more to placate his own self rather than Hannibal, but it wouldn’t matter. After all, _lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to me_.

He couldn’t go back inside yet, to the heated house and the heavy air. Will let the minutes pass outside as he tried to empty his mind. And how _difficult_ that was since he couldn’t return to his stream.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

“Will.”

He turned around at the sound of his name. Hannibal stood in the front doorway, backlit by the interior glow of the house. The halo of light surrounded him in an ethereal, holy way. 

“If you intend to stay outside, I would suggest a coat.”

Will blinked, catching eye contact with Hannibal for a moment before letting his eyes slowly travel away. “I’m—I’ll come back in.” 

Despite his words, Will did not move an inch as he returned his gaze to the snow covered front yard. He faintly heard the front door close, only to reopen moments later. Hannibal stepped outside, bundled up in a pea coat, and handed Will his own wool coat. Will accepted it with a muttered _thanks_ and slipped it on before his core temperature could drop anymore.

They stood in the silence of winter, and Will wished it could stay that way forever.

“My question,” Will started, tone cautious and words drawn out, “is less of a question, and more of a… request.”

Will could feel Hannibal’s curious gaze on him, but he let Will speak for now.

“I need help,” Will admitted, voice so quiet that Will could barely hear himself. Then, even quieter, “I need _your_ help.”

“I don’t believe there’s much help I can offer,” Hannibal replied, voice equally as hushed as Will’s. “You’ve set out on your path. Your river is carved.”

“That’s not the kind of help I’m seeking,” Will said in a mutter as he followed the trail of one particular snowflake, down, down, down until it melted into the ground. Lost amongst the others. 

“Then what is?” 

“I lack the proper accommodations for my plans.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw Hannibal turn his sights back to the yard. Will could tell that he was thinking, mind whirring with the same thoughts.

( _Do you trust me? Can I trust you?_ )

“The true motive behind our discussion of trust has been revealed,” Hannibal remarked. “You want my assistance, but in a way that could incriminate me as well.”

“It’s why I didn’t _ask_.” Bitterness slipped its ugly way into Will’s tone despite his attempts at reeling it in.

“You’re afraid of what you’ll do if I refuse,” Hannibal observed, “and you’re afraid of what you’ll do if I accept.”

“I believe our fears are similar in that aspect, as well, Dr. Lecter,” Will retorted, finally bringing himself to meet Hannibal’s gaze. “We both fear what we can hold over each other.”

“Then,” Hannibal said, voice low, “let us hope we find trust before it’s too late.”

“Let us.”

They stood in silence for a brief moment, Will trying to read Hannibal’s expression and pick out the unsaid words lost in his moss-hinted maroon eyes. Hannibal’s face shifted, and whatever it was Will was looking for, he didn’t quite find it in time. 

The two returned inside, where dinner had long gone cold. It didn’t matter, though, not to Will. The hour was late and he still had to make the snowy drive home. Hannibal offered leftovers, and Will hesitantly accepted, alongside a much needed shot of espresso. It was such a departure from their intense discussions, and the changes of tone Hannibal could make in an instant always gave Will mental whiplash. From being able to see the hints Hannibal’s emotions, the deep running currents they were, to seeing nothing but the surface ripples again. In his attempts at understanding Hannibal, Will was sinking whether he liked it or not.

Hannibal spoke as Will was putting on his scarf, “I suggest we meet more often than once a week.”

Another form of trust? Hannibal’s curiosity regarding Will’s plan? Or something else? Will didn’t know. Nevertheless, he nodded and muttered an agreement.

“You’re always free to drop in during the lunch hour,” Hannibal explained. “Or a call will suffice. I usually keep openings during the day, and we can meet then.”

Another nod from Will, and then, “Thank you. For… dinner.” _For your forgiveness_.

“You’re welcome.” Not ‘think nothing of it’ or ‘it’s not a problem,’ Will noted. “I always enjoy your company. As they say, don’t be a stranger.”

“I don’t think I could be if I tried,” Will admitted, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

Hannibal echoed his smile. “For that, I’m glad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I write a Hannibal and Will scene, I go a little crazy. Seeing how the entire chapter was nearly entirely Hannibal and Will scenes, this is being posted from the psychiatric ward. Displeasing jokes aside, this chapter completes the Ingram arc. Next up: Tier.


	6. Breath Holding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rape/Non-Con warning (brief flashback). Emetophobia warning.

The next morning found Will at a crime scene that left echoes in his mind. Savage bites that tore a body into bits of viscera and hunks of exposed gore burned behind his closed eyes. It was inhumane, yet entirely human. Hannibal had called it _natural instincts_ , a type of evolution. _Blood sport_ was the label Jack had preferred. There were pieces missing from this bloodied picture, though. It was what brought him to visiting Peter, besides wanting to thank the man for his silence.

“Bear,” Peter quickly pointed at one picture, and then the other. “Wolf.”

Will’s curiosity was piqued. “Do bears and wolves hunt together?”

“Um, you—I mean, you could, you could train—train a bear to be a wolf, or a wolf to be a bear. Train—train ‘em long enough, and they, and they will hunt together, feed together.” Peter half-smiled with his next words, “E-en-enough time, there’s, there’s a great deal I could train even you to do, Will.”

Instantly, Will thought of his relationship with Hannibal. How much had Hannibal trained him to do? How much had he learned on his own? Would Will let them reach the eventuality of hunting together? God knows they’d already fed together. 

Will huffed quietly. “That kind of friendship can keep you on your toes.” It was a nice way of putting it, he knew.

Peter laughed softly with his response. “Animals, they—they do have friendships, just like, just like us. We’re the same.”

Something about the words felt integral to the case, reminiscent of the scene. “Yeah… I’ll try to remember that,” he said in a distant whisper.

“Please, don’t—don’t blame... blame the animals,” Peter suddenly requested, worry filling his saddened eyes. Will assured him he wouldn’t. “Don't... man is the only creature that kills… to kill.”

Like icy air rushing into his lungs, Will saw the full picture come together. This killer wasn’t controlling the beasts… he _was_ the beast. Will was sure that whatever scene they came across next, because there _was_ going to be another one, the killer’s mindset would become even clearer to him. For now, though, he kept the profile locked tight in his mind as he directed the conversation into deeper waters.

“Peter…” Will started, voice dropping down to a whisper again. “I wanted to thank you for not telling anyone else about… your shadow.”

Peter’s eyes widened slightly at the metaphorical mention of Ingram. “He’s… he’s not—not gonna hurt anyone else?” Peter’s tone was equally as hushed as Will’s.

“Never again.” Steel was in Will’s voice despite how quiet he kept himself.

“Then I should, I should be thanking _you_ ,” Peter said, breaking eye contact to look down at the pet rat in his hands. 

“No,” Will whispered with a smile, “no. I’m just…” Will trailed off. Just what? What was he trying to accomplish?

(To eliminate people like Clark Ingram for good. To cultivate his own natural instincts. To evolve. All selfish reasons in their own rights.)

“I’m just trying to right some wrongs in the world,” Will said with a tense sigh and an even tenser smile.

“You’re… you’re a good—a good friend,” Peter said with a thoughtful expression. Will raised his eyebrows slightly, at the judgement. “I didn’t, I didn’t know good… _people_ , people like you existed.” _Killers_ being the insinuated word in the statement. Good _murderers_.

_They don’t_ , is what Will wanted to say, but what he ended up saying was, “Thank you.”

He lingered for a while longer, talking with Peter. He found their conversations oddly easy, oddly lighthearted, oddly comfortable. Will could easily see a version of himself returning to continue their animal-centered discussions. Both Will and Peter could talk about their pets all day, after all. It was a nice thought (in concept).

In actuality, Will was unsure if he’d ever see Peter Bernadone again.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

Thoughts of wolves and bears, of pack-hunting, of alliances with Hannibal roamed his head all day. He thought of the difference between Jack and Hannibal, of blood sport versus natural instinct; Will realized that he already knew which side he half-aligned himself with. When he was finally home in the evening, he called Alana on a calculated whim. She answered on the third ring.

“Will?” she greeted, hesitant and voice sounding familiarly different over the line.

“Alana.” Will didn’t bother to sweeten his voice; this call was not to convince Alana of his recovery. “I… I need to talk to you. I’m not sure who else I can go to.”

“Will…” her hesitancy was replaced by something akin to exhaustion. She caught her tone, corrected herself when she continued, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, don’t worry.” A complete lie in every possible regard. “I’m not sure I can explain this over the phone, though.”

A sigh from Alana. Yes, he bitterly thought, _Will Graham disrupting your perfect life yet again, so_ sorry _Alana_. “Is this about Hannibal?” Her tone was decidedly peeved, maybe even frustrated. 

“It is,” Will admitted, “but not in the way you’re thinking.”

“Then what is it about?” Alana asked, voice taking on a sterner tone.

“It’s about Jack.” Will purposefully paused, then, “And Hannibal. This is _really_ not something to discuss over the phone.” Will let his own annoyance and frustration bleed into his voice, to let her think that this was a _serious_ situation. When wasn’t Will serious, though? When he tried to advocate for his own health? When he insisted he wasn’t the Copycat Killer? No, he hadn’t been serious then. He’d been paradoxically _completely healthy_ and _terribly sick_. He’d been an empath and a _psychopath_ , himself and a stranger.

Alana paused before responding, just a brief moment, a little thing that let Will know she was starting to take him more seriously. “...Is Jack forcing you to do something?” 

Ah, now see, Alana _could_ be perceptive when it fit her narrative. To her, Jack was the boss that manned the helm and drove Will until the marine propulsion of his mind overheated. As if Will had a single chance of _not_ crashing and sinking when Hannibal was keeping everyone in dark, uncharted waters. His Titanic was not an accident, not whatsoever. Alana didn’t know that, though. She saw Will’s encephalitis as a tragic thing that snuck up on all of them, as something that was only further triggered by the way Jack always demanded results. Will’s health be damned, people were _dying_. 

“Like I said,” Will explained, slowly with subtle irritation, “this is a conversation that would be easier face-to-face. I only called to ask if you were available to talk sometime soon.”

“Will, this is something we need to talk about _now_ ,” Alana demanded. “If Jack is pushing you to investigate Hannibal—” Again, Alana could be smart. “—then you need to take it up with the FBI.”

“I know,” Will said, “I know, but I… look. I know Hannibal isn’t the Ripper. I can, um, I’ve been _remembering_.” The lies, laced with truth from a different situation, slipped easily out of his mouth, a waterfall of them falling from his lips. “I know Chilton used psychic driving to plant the idea in my head. That, that doesn’t matter though, because Jack still believes Hannibal is the Ripper.” A slight shakiness appeared in his voice, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the high that came from his nerves or his deceit. Alana would perceive it as anxiety, either way.

“Are you at your house?” Alana asked, tone still grave.

“Yes,” Will answered in disbelief. Had she really taken the bait that easily? Why hadn’t he utilized Alana before? Even though she didn’t see him in the same way she did _before_ his attempted murder-by-proxy on Hannibal, she was still ready to defend him from Jack.

“I can be there in twenty,” she suggested, some of her authoritative tone lessening, as if she realized how demanding she was suddenly being. A bit like… Jack Crawford? The irony made Will laugh softly, not even bothering to catch himself.

“Sure. See you then.” Will hung up before Alana could say anything else. 

_Jack Crawford_. Will had to admit, he felt guilty about his lack of guilt when it came to taking this route. Jack wasn’t a bad person, he just wasn’t _good_. He was simply another person in a long line of many that hadn’t treated Will right. Jack pushed Will with guilt, Alana pushed Will with pity, Hannibal pushed Will with…

( _With what?_ )

...with forbidden promises, and manipulations, and _lies_. Lies, as Will so commonly employed now. Some full lies, some white lies, some he wished he could believe, some he had to believe for the sake of a situation, and some lies that ran so deep that he believed them to be truths.

He shook himself out of his daze and set his phone on the nightstand. Alana would be here soon, his evening was going to be disrupted; at least he was still in his day clothes. He truly hadn’t expected her pushing to talk tonight. Will had been betting on having a bagel on the Georgetown campus again. The leftovers from Hannibal were already gone, and now Will was going to have to make his own breakfast, tomorrow morning. Knowing his lack of appetite, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

Will set about cleaning up his house while he waited for Alana. His place went from a controlled mess to complete control. The bed was made, the dogs' sleeping spots were straightened up, and he swept because he was _not_ dragging out the vacuum cleaner at this hour. When he was satisfied, he threw on a coat and waited outside as the dogs relieved themselves as quickly as possible. His pack gladly returned to the heat of the indoors after he dried them, despite Will himself remaining in the cold. 

Alana’s headlights came shining down his driveway only a minute later. He stayed on the porch, waving with an amused smile as she stepped out of her car and walked up to his house.

“This is _serious_ , Will,” she said as a greeting, her expression beyond stern.

“Hello to you too, Alana,” Will responded as he opened the door and led her inside.

“Sorry,” she said as both of them shed and hung up their coats, “I wasn’t expecting to drive out to Wolf Trap tonight.”

“I wasn’t expecting you either,” Will admitted as he let his voice take a graver tone, sitting down in one of the armchairs he kept by his desk. Alana took the other seat as she tucked a stray hair behind an ear.

“Look, I can help you,” she insisted while trying to catch his eyes, as if she could force him to make eye-contact if she looked hard enough. “I know we haven’t been on the best of terms recently, but Jack shouldn’t be abusing his power.”

“I haven’t even told you what he’s done yet,” Will let his eyebrows raise in mock-disbelief.

“Then tell me.” She sat back, and Will could see the shift from the Alana that didn’t trust Will Graham, to the Alana that was a therapist.

Will sighed, sitting back as well. Tensed his jaw, then relaxed. He was supposed to be _nervous_ , after all. He was snitching on Jack, who wouldn’t be nervous? Admissions always made people nervous. Only a psychopath wouldn’t be nervous: he was _not_ a psychopath.

( _“Psycho,” hissed Alec's voice in between heavy breaths. Insisting that Will was nothing but a psychopath. Insisting that because of a perceived lack of empathy, he deserved what was happening to him. “Prob'ly enjoying— **this**.” Will ground his teeth at the pain, caught between dissociation and reality. “Ha—ha, that’d be a first.” Alec grabbed hold of Will’s hair again, gripping tightly as he leaned in close and whispered, “Don’t enjoy it too much.”_)

**He was not a psychopath.**

“Will,” Alana was looking at him, breath bated. “It’s alright. You can tell me.”

She used that tone, that _tone_ that she usually reserved for victims, witnesses, and victim’s families.

He was not a victim. The idea was quiet, soft in his mind because if it made itself known at normal volume, he would hear his own hesitance. He would not be able to accept the lie.

He would not let anyone make him into a victim. It held more conviction than the previous line of thought because it was true. The statement didn’t account for people that had already forced him into the mold of a victim. _Not anymore_. 

He was only pretending to be a victim for the sake of this role; for the sake of having Alana sway to his side and have his back when it came to Jack Crawford. That idea was his current reality and the thought returned him to the present situation. Alana was still waiting, after all.

“It hasn’t been much, in all honesty,” Will truthfully admitted, doing his best to seamlessly pick up where his mind had dropped off. 

“But enough for you to ask for help? Will, you _never_ ask for help.”

“I haven’t _asked_ for help,” Will clarified in a quieter tone, tilting his head slightly in annoyance. Maybe pride was a sin of his, after all. 

“Then help me understand what you’re asking for,” she replied in that calm voice of hers that continued to grate at Will’s nerves.

Will stayed silent for a moment before he began to explain again, “It wasn’t much. Jack wanted me to… resume my therapy, with Hannibal.”

“Under false pretenses,” Alana filled in. Will risked a glance at her eyes, and blue met blue for less than a second. Icy rage, was what Will saw first. Sadness was the second; disappointment and pity. 

“Under false pretenses,” Will agreed. “I was still… doubting some of my memories, at the time. I wasn’t sure who to believe. All of the evidence pointed to Chilton, but my own mind _told_ me—” Will’s voice caught for a moment, tensed at the memories of Hannibal and the flashing light. “—that it was Hannibal.” _Because it was. Because it is._ “But then… working with Hannibal, and no longer being locked up, my memories started coming back. Of Chilton and the light.” _Of Hannibal and the lies._ “I swear, that orderly only went after Hannibal because I was _convinced_. That’s exactly what Chilton wanted me to do, and I played _right_ into it.”

“I know,” Alana assured him.

Will risked another glance at her eyes, a quick flick of his gaze, and saw that the pity had finally overtaken the rage. _Perfect_.

“Jack… I don’t know what to do. He wants me to investigate Hannibal, but I _can’t_.” The words were painfully true.

Alana suddenly seemed wary, “...Have you told Hannibal?”

“Yes,” Will admitted, another truth in his long list of lies. “The other night, during our session. I couldn’t stand it anymore. He’s my friend.” Will’s voice nearly caught again when he found everything else to be true as well.

(Hannibal was his friend, again? That couldn’t be right. It could, but it couldn’t. Paradoxical, like everything in Will’s life, Hannibal’s life, their three halves of a whole life.)

Will shook his head slightly and continued, “I never lied to him, but I didn’t tell him the full truth either. False pretenses,” Will mentioned with a hand gesture, and Alana nodded in understanding. “I’ve fixed that now, but Jack won’t stop. Even if I tell him it isn’t Hannibal, he won’t believe me.”

“Are you saying you haven’t told him yet?” Alana asked in quiet disbelief.

“That it’s Chilton?” Will scoffed. “Alana. You saw the photos. You spoke to Chilton. If Jack didn’t believe it after all of that, what makes you think he’ll believe me?” The incredulity in Will’s voice was real. There was no way he could convince Jack that Hannibal was innocent without making himself look guilty in the process. He could certainly try, but it'd be harder than swimming upstream, fighting a losing battle.

Alana seemed to accept his argument. Both of them knew how Jack could be once he was set on his warpath. “You should at least try explaining it to him, so you can have it for your report.”

“Report?” Will asked, playing dumb.

Alana’s face twisted for a moment before she collected herself and steeled her gaze towards Will. Oddly, Will found himself holding her stare as he looked at her: _nerves, pity, sadness, anger, regret_. How easy it was to read her now that he wasn’t seeing her in the light of a romantic interest.

“I can only see this ending one way,” Alana admitted, voice collected, calm, and full of fury that lay underneath the ice. Will idly wondered if she’d ever connect to that side of herself, the side that wasn’t all rose petals and humanistic psychology. “And that’s with Jack retiring.” 

_Retiring_. The word hit like a tsunami: breathtaking and beautiful. Will hid how pleased the idea made him. Jack Crawford, no longer head of the BAU, forcibly retired. No longer breathing down Will’s back. The idea almost tasted… sweet.

“You’ve already disclosed to Hannibal and I,” Alana continued. “You can go talk to Jack as soon as possible, and if he still pushes, we can discuss your options.”

“My _option_ , you mean,” Will corrected. “You said it yourself, this is only going to end one way.”

Alana sighed, weary and tired. “Jack has always bent the rules for the ‘greater good,’ but… he’s lost sight. I should’ve stepped in with you—”

“That wasn’t your job,” Will muttered. A slip, caused from still-lingering resentment. “Nobody knew how sick I was. I don’t blame you.” It was an attempt at saving the situation, but Will knew it wasn’t good enough.

“Do you still blame Hannibal?” Alana asked warily. 

“Of course not,” Will huffed with a smile, looking down at his hands for a moment before returning his gaze to his napping dogs. “I don’t blame anyone.”

“I think you should,” Alana insisted, that little bit of fury burning through. “Jack was constantly throwing cases at you. The stress didn’t help your illness.”

Will acted as if he was considering the thought, as if he truly didn’t point the burning blade of blame at anyone and everyone that crossed his dark path. In reality, he was thinking about tomorrow’s breakfast, lest his mindset grow too violent. Maybe some toast and jam with a cup of coffee? Not like it mattered: it would all taste like bitter nothingness, anyway.

“Just… put some thought into it. We both know that Jack was pushing you hard.” And there was the pity in her voice again, he hated _this_ Alana. Avoiding annoyance, he let his thoughts drift back to breakfast; he still had some eggs, right? He was pretty sure he still had eggs. His body needed the nutrition even if his mind was rejecting every act of self care he dared to enact. It went without question that he could no longer stomach the chamomile tea.

“I will,” he absently promised. “Is this really as simple as talking to Jack?” Will asked, voice full of doubt. 

Alana smiled, half-amused. “It could be, if Jack changes his personality overnight.” 

Will nodded, mind distant, yet somehow present enough for acidic remarks. “I’d say let’s cross our fingers to that, but with my luck, it’d probably just make things worse.” 

Alana laughed lightly, shaking her head before her smile faded away into something sad, something bittersweet. Will copied her, not meaning to. He could tell she was thinking about the further implications, if Jack didn’t give up his hunt for Hannibal Lecter, if Jack was forced to step down.

“At least he’ll be able to spend more time with Bella,” Alana settled on.

_Bella_ , Will suddenly remembered. She was… she was nice, from what little Will knew of her. For some reason, he could’ve seen Bella and Beverly getting along like a house on fire, if the universe had ever crossed in a way to let the two women meet. The unexpected thought of Beverly turned Will’s bittersweet feelings into… not even bitter. Not even sweet. Just sad. 

She wasn’t _meant_ to die, and it'd been evident in her tableaux. It had been more... _respectful_ than most of the Chesapeake Ripper's displays. Beverly Katz hadn't been chosen like Hannibal’s usual victims, no. She'd simply looked too close, looked too close and _wasn’t_ Will Graham. Will waited for the guilt to come, but it didn’t. His mood decreased even further at the realization.

“Will?” Alana asked, and Will was momentarily worried that he had zoned out for an extended amount of time again before she continued, “You’ll talk to Jack, right?”

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Will asked rhetorically.

“No,” Alana nearly whispered. “I guess you don’t.”

“It’s Jack or Hannibal—” _Or myself_. “—and I’ve made my choice.”

Alana looked at him, and Will caught her glance. She believed she was gaining a new understanding of Will, that she was learning the last of his lies. That this was the person he was now. 

How _little_ she knew. He was blinding her just as much as Hannibal. Now, _that_ was a sickly saccharine thought. Will could play the same games Hannibal did. He could maybe even play them better if he used his empathy to his advantage, weaponizing what he once saw as his weakness.

Alana’s lips filled into a melancholy smile. “You seem better, Will.”

_Ha_. “I feel a lot better after telling you all of this.” 

“I’m _glad_ ,” she huffed, something akin to relief washing over her voice. “I’m sure telling Hannibal felt the same.”

Will nodded, and began to easily steer the conversation away from Hannibal, Jack, and the dam of lies Will was building. Soon, their heavy conversation turned moon-gravity light as they discussed the idea of Will returning to teaching at the FBI, or elsewhere. Alana said she could put a good word in for him, if need be, considering how _Will Graham_ was mostly known as the Copycat Killer. Nobody ever seemed to read far enough to learn that he was exonerated.

(Or even if they did, they didn’t believe it. What had Alec called it? _Government trying to cover their asses_.)

_No_. He pushed the intruding thought down before it could infect him further. 

Eventually, when the hour was getting late, Will showed Alana out. He held a smile on his face as he waved goodbye, echoing his welcome, and watched her car disappear down his driveway and onto the main road. The moment the headlights faded, his face dropped to utter neutrality. A calm washed over him, a calm that came with knowing his plans were working. All he had to do was hold himself together until everything came to fruition.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

The next day, Will made himself a breakfast devoid of taste, filled a thermos full of coffee for the road, and made the drive to Quantico. It wasn’t the ideal start to his day, but he had to follow Alana’s advice, had to at least try and talk Jack down.

He waited thirty minutes, sat in Jack’s office, before the man finally returned from a morning meeting. Jack’s weariness was palpable in the air, but Will refused to let Jack’s emotions influence how he felt.

“You’re here early,” Jack greeted as he rounded his desk, taking his seat. “You have something?”

“I’m not here about the case.” Not _that_ case, at least.

“...You have something else, then,” Jack stated, catching the insinuation.

“No,” Will replied, keeping his voice low and calm. “I’m here to tell you that I’m done investigating Hannibal Lecter.”

Jack’s expression faltered, crackled between all different kinds of confusion, anger, and exhaustion.

“Will,” Jack warned, his tone quieting. 

“I know that Chilton brainwashed me,” Will lied. “He planted the idea in my head and I _ran_ with it,” he insisted, letting hints of true frustration seep into his voice.

Will knew that the only thing that kept Jack from yelling was the delicate topic of their conversation. “After everything, you can’t honestly tell me—” 

“That Chilton is the Ripper? Yes, Jack, I can. And I’m telling you, here and now, that I’m done.”

“Is he threatening you?” Jack asked, obviously trying to figure out some sort of explanation for Will’s one-eighty on Lecter’s guilt.

“No,” Will replied confidently and narrowed his eyes at Jack. “Are you?”

Jack looked at Will with a mix of betrayal and stupefaction. “You’re supposed to be _my man_ , Will.”

“I still am,” he lied, again. “But I was wrong. I can see that now.”

“You are _never_ wrong, Will,” Jack argued in hushed doubt, each word a harsh punch that Will dodged with ease.

“I’m never wrong when I’m healthy,” Will corrected him, despite the fact that Jack was truly right. Even sick, Will had been right; it’d just been more difficult to find the truth. “Do I have to remind you just how high my fever was when I was arrested? Or maybe you’d rather hear the details of Chilton’s torture? With what I’ve remembered, I find myself wishing _I_ was the one that sent a bullet through his face. You _don’t_ want me finishing the job Miriam started.”

Jack put a hand up for Will to stop, the other hand pinching his nose bridge. “I don’t want to hear this anymore. You’re done.”

When Jack made eye contact with him again (Will catching his gaze since he _had_ to know the man’s true intentions), he saw the hints of deceit. Lies of omission. 

“I was done before I stepped in this office,” Will clarified, since Jack seemed to think that he still had that kind of authority over Will. “You’re not, though.”

Jack was silent, and the silence was damning.

“You don’t believe me,” Will whispered, letting fake disbelief fall over his face. It wasn’t shocking, but he melted into it for the sake of the role. “You can’t keep investigating him. You’ll be playing with fire.”

“If I get burned, that’s on me,” Jack said with startling sobriety, even though he was neither the type to delight in the flame nor walk away without being singed. 

“It’s not if, it’s when,” Will urged as he sat forward in his chair, fighting the upstream battle. He truly did not want to involve any FBI higher ups, didn’t want to deal with the Office of the Inspector General. “Somebody’s going to catch wind of the smoke sooner or later.”

“Then I’ll hope it’s later.” Jack’s face was stone, and Will knew that it was over.

Will smoothed his own expression, let his own ripples of emotion fade. “I won’t let you.” A single eyebrow slowly raised on Jack’s face, silently questioning. “I’m reporting you.”

Jack was silent, and Will could see how the other man didn’t expect Will to pull this card. A slight sliver of guilt tried to sink its way into Will’s chest, but Will denied it entry. _Not now_.

“He’s done something,” Jack insisted, the betrayal evident on his face again. “Will, I’m here for you, I _believe_ you now.” The words tugged at Will, slightly. A previous version of himself would have fallen for them, but he had changed. He let the words wash over him like a gentle wave, receding the way they came.

“No, Jack. You don’t,” Will said with a cold smile. “I’ve already told Alana—”

“She’s—”

“—and I’m telling the OIG, I’ll go straight to Prurnell—”

“This is a _mistake_ —”

“—because I’m _done_ playing your game,” Will snapped, standing with his words. “And I’m sure as _hell_ not covering for you.”

Jack stayed seated, nodding shortly, his thinly veiled emotions so strong that it nearly hurt Will to look at him. _So this is what betrayal feels like, from the other side._

The ringing of Jack’s office phone cut through the silent tension, and Will turned away as Jack answered. He let himself sink into his thoughts, Jack’s voice distant despite only being a few feet away.

(Betrayal wasn’t a pleasant feeling. It truly, truly wasn’t. It was grating and disturbing, like the slow twisting of bone until it broke, shattered. No amount of casts or pins would be able to fix this; Will knew Jack would never let this go.)

“Two more bodies,” is what Jack said that brought Will out of his haze. Will looked at Jack over his shoulder. “We can discuss _this_ —” Jack pointed between the two of them. “—later.”

And that was that.

The scene found Will at an empty, snow covered park. The field stretched on endlessly, snow nearly bright and blinding in the morning light. It was purgatory, a kind of empty space that Will was deeply familiar with. A young couple laid stark, red against the white, and utterly mutilated with innards laid bare. Will let himself step inside the mind of the killer. He saw himself as the unknown beast of bone and bolts, the handler of the feathered stag that long stalked his dreams, and himself with growing antlers and body covered in midnight darkened blood.

He recalled his revelation with Peter, how this killer was the animal. That meant the victims were nothing but prey; the idea was nearly insulting to Will. The pickings were easy, _too_ easy. He idly wondered how he would end up putting down this animal. How the other killer wouldn’t see it coming because he wouldn’t realize Will was out for blood until it was too late. That’s what this was leading to, right? That’s what it felt like.

This killer would be dead by Will’s hands, one way or another.

“This kind of psychosis doesn’t just slip through the system,” Jack said during their conversation, the two reaching a silent, uneasy truce for the sake of the scene. Will’s intuition screamed at him for some unknown reason. “Somewhere, someone would have noticed this.”

“If it is psychosis, he got inside of it somehow,” Will said lightly, casually, trying not to let Jack’s lingering frustration affect him, “tamed it. Made a suit of it. He’s an engineer, or he understands engineering.” It only made sense, when Will considered it, when he thought back to how it felt stepping inside of this killer’s primal yet intelligent mind. “He knows how to build. He built his beast. He is a student of predators.” Again, Will’s intuition made itself known in the form of a question: _doesn’t that sound familiar?_

Before Jack and their conversation could go on much longer, Will was walking back to his car and checking the time on his watch. With more than enough time to make it to Baltimore by noon, he sent Hannibal a text to let him know he was coming. A discussion with Dr. Lecter would surely clear up Will’s current thought process, and put to rest some suspicions Will harbored in the process.

At the high of the hour, he was at the office, explaining the newest scene to Dr. Lecter. The words came easily, so easily as Will explained the rawness of the scene.

“‘No beast is more savage than man when possessed with power answerable to his own rage,’” Hannibal quoted.

“It’s not rage,” Will responded, his voice still carrying the same lightness, the same unreality it held at the scene. He sat against the desk, partially because he wanted to and partially because he needed to take a peak at Hannibal’s calendar in order to figure out who the too-curious woman from the other night was. “Rage is an emotional response to being provoked. This is something else.”

(He may lack understanding when it came to his own emotions, but he knew his rage. His fury. His wrath.)

“What is it?” Hannibal asked, still tidying the papers on his desk.

Will turned to look at Hannibal, thoughtful and tone soft when answering, “Instinct. It’s the way he thinks.”

“The way any animal thinks depends on limitations of mind and body,” Hannibal retorted. “If we learn our limitations too soon, we never learn our power.” 

Will wondered who they were talking about, in that moment. He looked away as he said, “His victims are torn apart; I’d say he learned his power.”

“He claimed his power,” Hannibal clarified as he walked around the desk to sit beside Will. “Much how you claimed yours. Though I can’t help but wonder at your choice of weapon. Can you imagine tearing someone apart?”

“Easily, Dr. Lecter,” Will responded, quiet and distant. He could imagine a myriad of ways he could tear someone down, limb by bleeding limb.

“Then I can safely assume you no longer find use in a gun,” Hannibal extrapolated. 

Will considered it for a moment. “Guns lack intimacy.”

“You set an event in motion with a gun, you don’t complete it,” Hannibal agreed. “You’re more intimate with your instincts nowadays.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Will responded, almost short of breath. “I talked with Alana last night.” His tone shifted with the abrupt subject change, hints of vitality finally their way into his voice.

“You and Alana haven’t been on the best of terms,” Hannibal noted. “Was it another attempt to rebuild the burnt bridge?”

Will scoffed with his reply, “Hardly. I told her about Jack. She suggested I talk to him.”

Hannibal titled his head as he looked away from Will, thinking. “A rather forgiving approach. Have you decided to heed her advice?”

“Shockingly, yes.” It wasn’t shocking, but it still felt like it. The old version of himself, hidden beneath glasses and layers of flannel, surely would find it shocking. Hannibal's question wasn't asking about _that_ , though; Will ignored the deeper insinuation. “We talked this morning. He didn’t take the news well,” he continued as he looked down at his hands. “He’s already building a narrative to fit his beliefs. Alana did the same, really.”

“Humans readily change their views in order to combat cognitive dissonance.” _Humans_ , as if Hannibal was different.

( _Wasn’t he?_ )

Hannibal continued, “Do their narratives align with yours?” A subtle way of asking _Are they catching on?_

“Alana’s completely off the mark. She’s circling back around to pitying me, even though she still believes that I shouldn’t be seeing you.” Will shrugged. “Apparently I’m a bad influence.”

Hannibal laughed, something most people wouldn’t consider a laugh for its brevity with it technically being an audible exhale coupled with a smile. As always, Will knew better. “Alana has her own narratives about me, and believes she has my best interests at heart.” Translation: _Alana is still completely blind._

“And what are your best interests?” Will asked without thought, turning to study Hannibal.

“My interests align with yours,” Hannibal replied as he met Will’s gaze.

It wasn’t the answer Will wanted, but he wasn’t sure what _that_ answer would be in the first place. “...And what are mine?”

“I believe you already know the answer.”

( _To become_.)

Will broke eye contact, huffing. Again, even _he_ wasn’t completely sure on what he wanted in the long run. He had his plan, his rather short term plan. That was certain. Yet… thinking of who he would be beyond that? What if he didn’t find… whatever he was looking for? What if one more murder wasn’t enough? What _would_ be? Would he forever be damned to a life of ending unworthy lives? A thousand more bodies like Clark Ingram’s, buried in shallow graves?

It didn’t sound wrong, but it also didn’t sound _right_. Just how Hannibal’s response regarding interests wasn’t wrong… but it wasn’t the answer Will was reaching for. Something was off, like an itch he couldn’t scratch or a name that was on the tip of his tongue. It burned at his lungs, and he knew he’d be unable to fully… _breathe_ , fully _live_ until he figured it out.

To become… wasn’t enough. He wanted to survive his becoming. He wanted… he wanted to _live_ afterwards. Find his life-meaning in the echoes of death.

“How much longer do you plan on using Alana?” Will asked, again not completely in control of the brain-to-mouth connection. Whatever happened to _think before you speak_? 

Hannibal was obviously put off by Will’s phrasing, _using_. 

(Will was, too. A reverberating memory, _I’m still going to use you_ , made Will clench his jaw and regret the words he spoke. As if he was a toy, a thing to be played with and discarded.) 

No, Hannibal never did anything so crass as to _use_ a person. He probably saw Alana as a project in manipulation and a way to further brush up on his acting skills. A very fancy, very human alibi that occasionally provided entertainment.

“The continuation of my relationship with Alana depends on a number of things. Though, I believe one worry could be put to rest rather soon.”

“And that is?”

“I suspect I know who your wild beast is.” 

Will blinked, taking a moment to understand what Hannibal meant before remembering the current case.

“You do?” Will questioned, slightly incredulous. 

“Years ago I treated a patient who fits the profile,” Hannibal began to explain. “A teenaged boy who suffered from what I would describe as an identity disorder.”

“An animal born in the body of a human,” Will put together.

“Exactly. He would be grown now, not only physically, but in wisdom and confidence. He would no longer feel he had to meet his needs in hiding.”

Will nodded. He knew the needs too, knew them _intimately_. The need to tear apart, to kill, and how the violence came easier than breathing nowadays.

“His name is Randall Tier,” Hannibal continued, clearly seeing that Will understood. “He works at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History.”

“You don’t suspect,” he realized, “you _know_.” Will pushed away from the desk and aimlessly walked forward before turning back to face Hannibal. “When did you find out?”

“At the first scene,” Hannibal admitted.

“And you're only telling me _now_?” The look Will gave him was decidedly pointed.

“I wanted you to gain a clearer image of him. The way he hunts, the way he kills,” Hannibal answered nonchalantly.

Will thought about why Hannibal would want that for Will. After considering the context of their conversation for a brief moment, the pieces sunk into place.

“You want me to kill him,” Will interpreted. 

“I want you to cultivate your instincts.”

“...And you want me to _prove_ myself,” Will uttered in disbelief.

“As we’ve established, trust is the foundation of a relationship.”

Will wanted to laugh, hysterically. He didn’t, but a broken kind of smile still found its way onto his face. Ah yes, _Hannibal_ —who had built their entire initial friendship on deceit—speaking of trust was always bitterly hilarious. Of course, Will understood that this new mutual trust was important. Will needed to be able to trust that Hannibal wouldn’t steal his lifeboat a second time, and Hannibal needed to trust that Will wasn’t trying to set him up. The only way to ensure that was through mutually assured destruction. Both of them would have information that could destroy one another, therefore neither would dare to harm the other.

Unless.

Unless they decided to kill each other.

(And that hurt just to think about.)

Will nodded in understanding, smile slowly fading from his face. He knew that this was the eventuality.

“I assume you haven’t told anybody else about Randall Tier,” Will questioned.

Hannibal smiled. “And risk violating doctor-patient confidentiality?”

At that, Will actually laughed.

He ended up leaving before the hour was up, and idly considered how he was going to lure Randall Tier. Trying to outhunt a bestial hunter would be idiotic. Will could easily see himself losing days of sleep in order to ensure that Tier wouldn’t attack in the middle of the night. No, this would be better played as a fisherman. What a wonderful arsenal that Will had, finally being put to good use.

Luring, however, brought about different issues that Will would have to deal with. Luring required more precautions, lest Will get trapped by a net of his own design (especially if this were to be a short fishing trip, as Will wanted it to be). If museum curator Randall Tier—no doubt specializing in cave bears and ancient wolf species—were to suddenly show up dead… 

Oh, this _test_ of Hannibal’s was more difficult than it originally seemed. 

Returning home, Will found himself looking up Randall Tier’s contact information (among other topics of idle research, safely on his Tor browser) on the Smithsonian website. Tier was young, but not in a way that shocked Will. His killings held that sort of youthful energy and savagery. An email address was listed, and Will’s eyes lit up in anticipation. After a few more minutes, Will had created a new email account for the sole purpose of laying the bait for Randall Tier. 

**To** : TierR@si.edu  
 **From** : EikthyrnirEchoes@protonmail.com  
 **Subject** : Social Predation

_Are you receptive to pack-hunting?_

_\- A Kindred Spirit_

It was short, sweet, and said everything that needed to be said. Will hoped Tier was the type who actually checked his email. Even more so, Will hoped that the answer would be _yes_. There was a significant possibility that Tier was a solo-predator, but there was also the equally likely possibility that Tier would want to be seen and understood. It seemed that most killers were lonely beings, and Will was, as always, the perfect person to provide empathy. 

With his current job done and his laptop on, Will felt a sudden urge to conduct some… cleaning. He found himself exploring his old lecture PowerPoints, skimming through photos of murder scenes with zero text. His reputation as a tough grader seemed like such a distant concept. There was a website that rated professors, and over a year ago, he’d found himself looking at his own reviews. _Skip class? You won’t pass_ was a common tag applied to the reviews. Many had been positive, remarking how _Professor Graham_ had _incredible insight into psychoanalysis_ , how class was _never boring_. Equally as many had been negative, admonishing him for having _unclear rubrics_ and how he was _never available during office hours_. 

Was that the life he would return to, when this was all… over? Done? He… he couldn’t imagine it. He couldn’t imagine life two weeks from now. Would Tier be dead by then? Sinclair? Lecter? 

(Himself?)

While he _was_ planning for his future self, for his future self’s safety regarding his current crimes, he couldn’t actually put together a proper picture of what would actually happen _after_. After Hannibal’s trust was earned. After Sinclair was dead. Would the sense of wild justice continue to burn? Or would it extinguish in the face of surrounding waters? Will didn’t know. He didn’t _want_ to know. 

All he knew is that he wanted to discard these remnants of his old self, the perceived-fragile, unstable Will Graham. He deleted everything and cleared the recycling bin. It left him feeling remarkably lighter. One less thing keeping him tethered to his previous reality, one less thing keeping him from—

His dogs started barking. Will glanced up from the computer screen, realizing its sharp brightness was the only thing illuminating his surroundings. The sun had long set, and Will almost startled when he dared to check the time.

Putting away his laptop and turning on some lights, he slung on a jacket and made his way to the front door. A quick _shush_ quieted his anxious dogs. Stepping outside, the winter night greeted him, cold and deadly. Equally cold headlights shone down the driveway, and an out of place luxury car rolled to a stop. Out stepped the curious woman from the other evening. 

“Hi,” greeted Margot Verger. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I met you outside of Dr. Lecter’s office,” she said with an uptick of her voice, half statement and half question. 

“I remember,” Will answered, because he never forgot things, bouts of time-loss withstanding. He shook his head with his next question. “How did you find me?”

“Well, as it turns out, you _are_ famous,” Margot answered as if that was the response he was looking for. Was his address so easy to find online? Had Freddie Lounds leaked that too? He certainly wouldn’t put it past her. 

Looking at Margot, standing prim and proper and polite, he couldn’t exactly feel anger (not yet, at least). She wasn’t here for antagonistic reasons, that much he could tell. His lack of anger was mostly because he had _also_ done his own research, earlier today, after figuring out who she was. 

“Huh,” Will settled on, mainly in misplaced kinship with her investigative instincts. “You’re not exactly anonymous yourself, Margot.” 

“Did you, uh, sneak a peek inside Dr. Lecter’s calendar?” she guessed, and Will (again) couldn’t even be upset at how right she was. 

“That is exactly what I did,” Will responded as Margot took a step closer, too close for comfort, as he tried to avoid eye contact. 

“It’s cold,” she eventually said, after a moment of heavy silence. “Do you have any whiskey?” 

“No. I don’t drink,” Will answered, because he truly didn’t have anything in his house. It was _why_ he had gone drinking that night. And since then, he hadn’t dared to replenish his stores. His new no-alcohol rule was only broken when it came to Hannibal, because refusing to drink with Hannibal would obviously show that something was _really_ wrong with Will.

“Well, you wouldn’t let me freeze out here, would you?”

Will made brief eye contact and considered her for a moment. Margot was intelligent, that much he could see, and she had something to say (something to tell). Will’s curiosity would boil relentlessly if he refused her now. After another second, he gave in as he opened the front door to lead her inside.

Once their coats were off and the dogs were settled again, Will took a seat in one of his armchairs; Margot followed suit, taking her place in the other one. It was reflective of his evening with Alana, when they had discussed Jack Crawford, when Will had spun a web of half-lies. 

“What is the heir to the Verger Meat Packing dynasty doing at my door?” Will asked as he sat down, tone curious and slightly annoyed at remembering her intrusion on his property. 

“Oh, my _brother_ is the heir, not me.” The bitterness in her tone was strongly evident. “I have the wrong parts, and the wrong proclivity for parts,” Margot revealed. She was almost as good at evading questions as Hannibal was, but something about her frankness was oddly likable. 

Will inhaled, all friendly thoughts falling away, as a tight smile overtook his face. His curiosity warred with his impatience, with growing anger at how… _rude_ it had been for Margot to show up at his _home address_ , completely unannounced. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Came for a character reference.” Her tone was starkly different, darker. “Patient to patient. What do you think of Dr. Lecter’s therapy?”

He shrugged, non-committedly. “It depends what you’re in therapy for,” Will replied, not technically lying (yet). 

“Oh, I’m in therapy for all kinds of reasons. The Verger’s slaughter eighty-six thousand cattle a day and thirty-six thousand pigs depending on the season. But that’s just the public carnage.”

“Yet you see Dr. Lecter for your private carnage,” Will inferred, “And what would _that_ be?” It was half-rhetorical, but Margot didn’t know it.

“I tried to kill my brother,” she answered, completely candid and said without an ounce of regret in her eyes. Will was not surprised.

“Well, I assume he had it coming.” 

“Did he ever,” Margot deadpanned. After a beat, she returned his question, “What’s _your_ private carnage?” 

A litany of different responses swam through Will’s skull, and he allowed himself a moment as he settled back into his chair. The question wasn’t _what_ his carnage was, but _which_ he wanted to share with Margot Verger. He found himself not wanting to share anything. Margot may be another patient of Hannibal’s, may share the same urges that plagued Will, but if push came to shove… 

“The usual,” Will responded, because he was _not_ willing to give up anything. _Not anymore_.

“And why do I find myself doubting that.” It wasn’t a question. Margot was a smart woman, surely coming from years of upper-class education and survival tactics that stemmed from repeatedly inflicted traumas. 

“Because you’re perceptive,” Will answered, tense, but still unwilling. “What about your perceptions of Dr. Lecter had you drive out here for a character reference?”

“Just the advice on murder that he gave me,” she said with a curious lift in her voice. 

“And what’s that?” Will played along, despite already knowing where it was leading. The same road Hannibal had sent Tier down. The same road he’d sent Will down. The same road he was currently sending Margot down.

“He said… ‘if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.’”

Will could only smile in response.

“You know,” Margot continued, “I think he said the same thing to you. I think your therapy’s already been successful.”

Will clenched his jaw with another smile as a slightly worried expression overtook Margot’s face. “That’s certainly a topic up for debate.”

“...I think I got my reference,” she realized, with that curious uptick in her voice present again. High and taut, but not particularly nervous; curious, but not curious enough to put herself in danger. It allowed Will to catch the flip side of her statement: _I think I should leave_.

“I think so, too.”

Her movements remained controlled and elegant as she thanked him for indulging in their short discussion and retrieved her belongings. Margot could tell the predators from prey, and she could tell when she overstayed her welcome. Will had his answers, after all. His curiosity was sated; his anger was not.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” she said as a parting. Only a small portion of Will’s rage dissipated at her last minute apology. 

As he watched her car disappear down the driveway, Will vehemently hoped that she would not show up on his property again. In fact, he hoped he _never_ saw her again. Surely whatever mess the Verger family possessed laid far from Will’s own depths.

Dinner was served to the dogs, but not to Will (his appetite still being a fickle thing). Once ready for bed, his interest defeated his exhaustion, and he found himself opening his laptop to check his new email. _One (1) unread_.

**To** : EikthyrnirEchoes@protonmail.com  
 **From** : TierR@si.edu   
**Subject** : Social Predation

_Does the skin you're wearing not fit, like it does for me? Do ragged bits of scalp cling to your teeth, trailing in tails of hair like comets? Does the hunt call for you?_

The lines between truth and fiction were entirely blurred for Will as he responded. This wasn’t a lure he had to craft; this was the lure he naturally was.

**To** : TierR@si.edu  
 **From** : EikthyrnirEchoes@protonmail.com  
 **Subject** : Social Predation

_I’m drawn towards the sounds of symphonic screams. I’ve tasted blood and I find myself wanting more. I dream of a beast that grows from within._

_Could you see me, like how I see you? Like how you’ve become?_

_\- A Kindred Spirit_

Sleep found Will easily, but he dreamt of darkness and a tugging current; antlers that grew from his skull, from his spine; burning, burning, burning lungs; an insidious whisper from behind him, _so good that you’re awake for this_. He woke gasping for air, dawn creeping its way over the horizon. 

(Will wouldn’t admit it, but he couldn’t catch his breath. It had slipped away from him, somewhere between yesteryear and the future, somewhere between the place he ended and the place he began again. He was holding onto the last strands of an exhale and the threads his decaying self, holding on so tightly that his vision dizzied. On the edge of his bed, hands tied to his hair, Will found himself wishing Hannibal was there: Hannibal with a hand on Will’s knee, a hand on Will’s back, comforting, _anchoring_. Of course, Will rarely got what he wanted in life, not unless he took it with force. And Hannibal was not an object for taking.)

His correspondence with Tier continued during the morning, back and forth volleys of questions and answers. Tier relented after only a few hours, being the impatient and young predator he was, wanting to meet his mystery soul-twin, his unknown brother (shared not by blood, but of beast). From the words of his digital letters, it was obvious that Tier had once been a patient of Dr. Lecter, and Will wondered if Tier could tell the same. After all, Margot Verger certainly saw how much Will had been affected by Lecter’s unorthodox therapy. 

The train of thought was what gave him an excuse to show up at Hannibal’s office during the lunch hour, after an hour drive through minimal D.C. traffic. 

“I’ve opened up a line of dialog with Randall Tier,” was how Will started, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. He slowly paced, on the defense and shielded behind his seat as Hannibal sat in his respective spot. There was no doubt in who held more power today, more control and calculated calm in the office that harbored so much weight, so many stolen moments in time.

“And what did he have to say?” Hannibal asked, one hand thoughtfully placed under his chin.

“He asked if _the hunt_ calls for me.” Will couldn’t make eye contact. Not yet.

“Does it?” he asked, he asked _so easily_ , and _oh_ , how Will wished he had the voice to answer. But he didn’t, not when he was still holding his breath.

Will’s lack of an answer was an answer within itself. “How many have there been? Like Randall Tier? Like me?”

“Every patient is unique,” Hannibal replied in that one tone that always made Will want to rip his throat out. 

Will took a moment, mentally, to compose himself. Of course, his anger did not rise to the surface in any way that Hannibal could tell, no, but Will would make his passive-aggression obvious with his next few words. It was the only way he could even the playing field, today. 

“Your psychiatrist came to visit me at the hospital before my trial.”

Hannibal shifted slightly in his seat; uncomfortable. _Bingo_. “Dr. Du Maurier,” he said passively.

“She must have known about you, because she knew there were others like me.”

“She’s an intelligent woman,” Hannibal replied, the subtle annoyance completely evident to Will.

“Is she still alive?” Will asked, his own tone curious and filled with something _vilely sweet, a sickly anger_ that he couldn’t identify.

“Yes.”

“Huh.” The disgustingly saccharine rage only increased, tenfold. “And why is that?”

“As I said, she’s very smart.”

“Like Margot,” Will muttered under his breath, suddenly falling back into his own head and he put together the puzzle pieces. The picture formed, incomplete as always, but he could see that Hannibal must have some sort of leverage over Du Maurier. Blackmail? _Mutually assured destruction_?

“You’ve met Ms. Verger, then,” Hannibal extrapolated. 

“If by _met_ , you mean she showed up on my doorstep and asked for _whiskey_ , then yes,” Will specified, annoyed and impressed at the memory. 

“That’s a bold course of action, even for Margot.”

“Yes,” Will agreed, “yes, it is.” Will paused, thoughtful as he decided to share Margot’s intentions. “She was there for a character reference. About you.”

“How curious,” he said in a fakely disinterested tone. 

“If your patients started comparing notes, Dr. Lecter,” Will started, finally getting to his long-winded point, “I believe the results would paint a _very_ jeopardizing picture.”

“You needn’t concern yourself with them,” Hannibal assured, a single tap to his armrest. _Slightly nervous, Doctor?_

“I think I need to be concerned if they start showing up at my front door,” Will bit back. “I’m trying to look after myself, but that’s awfully difficult to do if I have to worry about your patients’ _curiosity_.”

Will couldn’t tell if Hannibal was mirroring Will’s own animosity, or if he was mirroring Hannibal’s. What he _could_ tell was that Margot’s visit had disturbed him more deeply than he realized. How easy it had been for her to see through Will’s veil. Or maybe, even worse, how Will’s veil was seeping at the seams.

(He feared what he’d find beneath the rage, beneath the blood; what his very marrow would whisper of in the deep of the night, what secrets and sorrows and sonnets it would sing.)

Hannibal seemed pensive, maybe ( _maybe_ ) understanding what Will didn’t.

“Margot and Dr. Du Maurier are two perceptive women,” Hannibal continued, and Will couldn’t help but feel satisfied at their similar analyses, “but they’re no cause for worry, unless you’ve given them trouble.”

“I haven’t,” Will clarified as he rounded the chair, and took his seat; his anxious energy was still present, evident in the way he gripped the sidearms. “Should I?”

( _Should I? Should I? Should I?_ , echoed on repeat in Will’s brain. The lengths he would go to keep Hannibal’s approval seemed to know no bounds; Will’s excess of eagerness was enough to make him sick.)

“No,” was Hannibal’s verdict as the judge and jury to Will, the executioner.

The thrum in Will’s veins ceased, if only momentarily. He exhaled, too tense to be labeled a sigh.

“What else have you discussed with Randall Tier?” Hannibal asked, question cutting through the shaky silence.

“A meeting time, and place,” Will supplied, slowly letting his eyes travel to meet Hannibal’s. 

It was always a poisonous treat to look, _truly_ look, at Hannibal. Now, Hannibal was intrigued, but Will knew that nobody else would be able to tell ( _nobody else bothered to look, nobody else deserved to look_ ). It was a subtle lift of his eyebrows, eyes opening just a fraction more, the slight tilt of the head. Yet further than that, was the swarm in his eyes; deep amber was the front, with hints of moss that grew and faded, but blood and merlot red lurked from the depths. The eyes that told Will so much, the eyes that still had so much to tell.

“You’re being cordial with him,” Hannibal noted.

Will furrowed his brows slightly, a small smile creeping onto his face. “Would you say I’m being friendly to a fish because I’ve placed an enticing lure in front of it?”

“I would not,” Hannibal corrected himself. Will nodded, but Hannibal continued, “Although, I suspect that the lure you’re using may share your exact form and nature.”

“Oh, it does,” Will admitted, admitted with his whole chest. His confidence was finding footing again, as if each minute passed with Hannibal cleared Will’s purpose despite the lack of breath he still had. “That doesn’t mean I see the trout as my equal.”

Hannibal nodded, and that was all the confirmation that Will needed. 

Tonight, there would be blood.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Knock._

Will opened his eyes from his mid-afternoon nap, briefly wondering why he woke up before the alarm he set for later this evening. He noted how the sun was low on the horizon, how the blush of the sunset was beginning to fade on the clouds.

**_Knock, knock, knock_** , it was harder, this time. Will realized why he had woken up. His dogs were barking, but they had long since become background noise to Will’s brain. 

Still in his day clothes, sans shoes, he ran a hand through his hair as he stood up and looked through the glass. Only then did he notice just _who_ was at the door.

Drew Warne was standing on his porch.

On _his_ porch.

After shushing his dogs, Will gritted his teeth as Drew hesitantly waved at him through the glass. Much to his displeasure, Will opened the door. 

“Hey, uh, hey Will. Mr. Graham,” Drew greeted, hazel eyes and slightly nasally voice full of anxiety.

“Hello,” Will replied, letting some confusion seep into his tone. He forced himself to make eye contact for a brief moment, and confirmed that Drew was here with good intentions. The bottle of whiskey in his hand, maybe a gift? Another form of apology?

“Sorry, it’s weird that I’m just here, on your doorstep, I know, uh, look.” Drew exhaled and composed himself. “I know you said you weren’t down for a drink _with_ me, but I definitely still owe you one. Or a thousand. So… yeah.” Drew held out the unopened bottle of whiskey. “It’s what you were drinking that night, right? So, all of those rounds are on me,” he said with an anxious smile. 

It felt as if a thousand minnows were swimming within Will’s skull. His brain had been reduced to nothing but water, and it was surely bleeding out of his ears. Surely, it was obvious. Surely, Drew could see that this was the very last thing Will wanted. Surely, Drew would retreat as quickly as he had showed up and take the whiskey bottle with him.

_Surely_.

There was a brief moment of dissociation that Will was able to recognize, a moment where reality was slipping away from him and he could see himself. A third person view told him that, no, water wasn’t spilling out from his head. That, _actually_ , he just looked a bit confused, a bit annoyed, a bit tired. His posture was straight and strong as he held open the front door, obviously not wanting to let Drew in, but not wanting to leave the safety of his home.

He looked so _normal_.

And then he came back to himself.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Will said with a smile, but his tone suggested otherwise. His tone suggested that, yes, it was _thoughtful_ but also completely _unwanted_. It was as close as Will could get to breaking the veil of normalcy that enveloped him. 

“Yeah, I just, I was actually more here about the video,” Drew began to elaborate, shifting his feet. He was just as uncomfortable as Will. “I figured I should let you know that I deleted it. I mean, this was like, weeks ago, obviously. But, uh, I never told you? And I figured I should do that. So I’m here. And I brought whiskey.”

_Weeks ago_. What was the date? Will wasn’t sure he knew. It was winter. That was what he knew. His meetings with Hannibal no longer marked the passage of time; they met nearly every other day. How much was slipping away from him? How much of his life, his newfound freedom, was he losing? _Tick, tick, tick_ , round and round went the misshapen clock hands. How much longer could he hold his breath and bite his tongue? 

Drew held out the bottle of whiskey. Will… accepted it, because he wasn’t sure what else _to_ do.

“Uh, sorry, I must’ve showed up at a bad time or something…”

“No, no,” Will assured him. “It’s fine. I was just taking a nap. Still waking up.” Will grinned, tight-lipped and fake. Still waking up, indeed. 

“ _Oh_ , oh okay. Yeah, I figured it’d be best to drop by now cause I’m over in Tysons today. Was only able to slip away now.”

“Slip away?” Will questioned.

“Yeah, Alec’s throwing a house party tonight. I helped set up and what-not, figured I’d drop by here before it started,” Drew explained, as if it was just… _whatever_. As if he wasn’t further twisting the blade in Will’s lungs.

“A _house party_ ,” Will hummed. “Not something you should tell a guy who works for the FBI, unless everyone’s legal.” Drew’s eyes widened momentarily, but Will smiled again (friendly to Drew, callous to Will). “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

Drew laughed, but the nerves were still present. “Thanks. I think Alec would, like, actually kill me if his party got busted.”

“Does he always host house parties?” Will asked, despite the growing pressure in his head that begged him to _stop, just stop talking about Alec Sinclair already_.

“Yeah, pretty regularly actually,” Drew revealed oh-so-easily. “It’s technically his parents’ house, but they’re snowbirds and live down in Boca during the winter. Lucky bastard has the whole place to himself, more often than not. Like, what college kid gets that?”

“A _rich_ one.” One that didn’t know the pangs of hunger. One that hadn’t grown up with (barely) two sets of clothes to his name.

Drew nodded. “I’d starve each month if it weren’t for my scholarship, and then _Alec’s_ just out here living it up like a, like a king or something.” It wasn’t just jealousy, Will knew that; it was a deep rooted resentment that gripped Drew that made him dislike Alec yet covet what he had at the same time.

The headache increased with the analysis, with the words Drew spoke. Will adjusted his stance to hold the door open with his foot, and brought his now-free hand up to rub his eyes and pinch his nose bridge. He knew he didn’t have a headache, at least in a physiological sense, yet the mental pain still presented as one. With a sigh through his nose, he let his arm drop to his side and plastered another fake smile on his face.

Will was done playing this role.

“Thank you for deleting the video, Drew.” The words came out hollow, read from a script that Will did not want to follow. “And thank you for the whiskey.”

“Don’t thank me,” Drew rushed out, words hasty. “Like I said, just… just trying to right a wrong.”

“Of course.”

“Yeah,” Drew nodded again. “Uh. I should probably get back to the party…”

“Right.”

“I don’t think I’ll see you again, so… I’m sorry. And, uh, stay safe.”

“I always do,” Will absently lied. “Goodbye.”

Before Drew could change his mind, extend the conversation again, Will backed away and let the door close. He did not linger in the living room, exposed by the front windows; he did not wait to see Drew walk away; he did not wait to hear Drew’s car turn on and leave. No, Will immediately went to the kitchen and left the whiskey on the countertop as he desperately retrieved one of his many bottles of aspirin. Three white pills, into his hand (shaking, _why was it shaking?_ ), into his mouth, dry-swallowed down his throat. His vision was clear, everything was clear but it wasn’t _right_ , it wasn’t _right_ and he felt, he felt memory-echoes of pain, and _violation_ , and a sickly feeling was rising, rising, rising with the rage that he kept so well _tempered_ , and he was sick, he was sick, he was _unwell_ and everything was _wrong_.

He barely made it to the bathroom in time, before he was on his knees and retching up nothing but stomach acid and the three little pills that he’d just downed. It left him with a horrifying sense of déjà vu, and Will half expected to see an ear floating around the toilet bowl as well. He heaved again at the thought of it, and his esophagus burned (burning, as it felt like his lungs were). 

In defeat, Will let his weight fall slightly, sink until he leaned against the side of the bathtub. He let his head droop, forehead coming to rest against the cool, porcelain enameled steel of the tub's edge. He breathed and let his mind drain because that was all he _could_ do. A sense of emptiness washed over him, a hollow stomach and a hollow head for a hollow man. Hollow, save his rage.

He breathed.

And he breathed.

And he _breathed_.

(Yet it was not enough.)

The alarm on his phone went off, somewhere distant in the house. The noise was enough to remind Will of what he still had to accomplish tonight. What he still had to do, what he still could do, what he still…

(What he still _wanted_ to do.) 

In a few minutes, Will would push himself up off the tile floor. He would flush down those three white pills, swimming alongside the bare remains of his stomach. He would run the sink cold and wash his face until he felt awake, aware. He would change into the same outfit he had worn _that night_ (one more extra wear would turn into two. It wouldn’t matter. He was already a serial killer a hundred times over, in his mind). He would take his father’s boots from the closet and lace them tight—tight leashed, tight lipped. He would strap one bait knife around his right calf and tuck another, alongside a familiar fillet knife, in his vest. He would be dressed and ready to meet and murder Randall Tier. 

Right now, though.

Right now, all Will did was breathe. 


	7. Submersion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence warning.  
> Reminder to check out the [fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/66FM8PgSdH3mZTmv4L1DHG) if you haven't already.

_Death in my hand, death in my hand, death in my hand_ , hammered on repeat in Will’s head. The drive into D.C., to the location that Tier had requested they meet at, passed in utter silence. There was no broadcast chatter or radio static to fill the void. Thoughts of anticipated blood and violence acted as his only company, with the rumble of the car nothing but background noise. A lovingly abnormal calm had washed over Will as he made his preparations. Every aspect of himself (that he could safely control) was prepared for what was to come. From the outfit he wore, to the weapons hidden on himself, to the two tarps laid across the trunk of his car, and to the immunity he felt to the surrounding pressure that was his life, he was ready.

On the far east side of Washington, on the border of D.C. and Maryland, was a clean, one story house built of grey bricks. The front yard consisted of neatly trimmed grass, diametrically opposed to the wild man that Tier was. A wooden fence, chest height, surrounded the large yard. The gate that led to the driveway was open, and Will took it as an invitation to leave his car there, underneath the wooden carport. Another vehicle was present, and there was an odd satisfaction as Will parked it in, knowing well that the car would never be driven by Tier again. Overall, though, he wasn’t surprised at the appearance of Randall Tier’s house; Will had done his research via satellite images earlier today. Whatever façade Tier presented in his work setting was present at his location of residence as well.

Will pulled a beanie over his slicked back curls before he stepped out of his car. For a brief moment, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror. He hardly recognized the eyes in the mirror, yet somehow, they were more familiar than anything he’d seen in his life. The shade of his mind matched the echo of his body; the feeling was near euphoric, and he didn’t even mind the antlers he could feel growing out of his skull. 

Tonight, Will was glad to be this creature of darkness. He would take the calm, the rage of murder over what he was usually feeling nowadays. 

It was late, and the streetlamps were too dim to fully illuminate the neighborhood. Will was not worried about any neighbors being able to identify his face or his car, not at this late hour, and certainly not behind the fence. Now, everyone slept blissfully, unaware of the monsters that lurked so near. 

Five short, light knocks later, and the front door was opening. The dim interior lights seeped out onto the front stoop, and Randall Tier welcomed him inside. Neither of the men spoke as Tier led Will through the small house, decorated in an oddly crisp, modern fashion. Change only came once Tier had Will follow him down a set of stairs, into the depths of the house. Wooden stairs turned into a tile floor and basement windows, present on both sides of the room, let in the moonlight. The room was further lit by some other, hanging light fixtures and half a dozen mismatched fluorescent lamps. It was a decidedly cold room, yet Tier’s sleeves were rolled up, unaffected. 

Tier’s bone-suit, his true self, laid inactive on a metal table. The mask was propped up on a stand, as if Tier had been in the middle of working on it. Mechanical bits of hydraulics and securing leather straps held the exoskeleton together. Different tools, drills and saws and clamps and presses, were scattered about the rest of the tables. Adding to the chaotically controlled look of the room was one picture covered wall. Diagrams and references of different ancient predators covered it completely, intermixed with what seemed to be Tier’s own concepts and blueprints for additions to the current suit.

Too bad that would never happen.

Tier walked around the tables, into the obvious heart of the workshop. The other predator stood in front of his creation, skull-mask behind him. Only then, did Tier introduce himself.

“Randall Tier,” he greeted, “but you already knew that.”

Will nodded in response, hands relaxed at his sides as he idly walked around the workshop, observing. His fingertips tingled when he considered the various ways he could take Tier down. 

“Will Graham,” he greeted in response, meeting eye contact for a brief second before letting his gaze return to his surroundings. Tier’s gaze followed Will everywhere he walked.

“Will Graham…” Tier mused and crossed his arms. “That’s a name that sounds familiar.”

Will huffed. “I’m the man they pinned the Copycat murders on.” 

“Yet you’re here,” Tier stated, questioned. It seemed that Tier didn’t know Will’s story; good for Will.

“I was exonerated,” Will said with a raise of his eyebrows and a half-smile. “I hadn’t murdered anyone then.” Because Hobbs was someone he _killed_ , not murdered. 

“But you have now,” Tier surmised. “You realized your nature didn’t match yourself. How many years did it take, Mr. Graham?” _How many years of lying?_

“You don’t want to know,” Will muttered, recalling his three and half decades on this planet that he spent living a lie. His and Tier’s situations weren’t exactly the same, with Tier having an identity disorder rather… what Will had, but they were similar enough to compare. As far as Tier knew, though, they lived with the same issue.

Tier spoke up, “I spent my entire childhood shoving down my urges, _myself_. I can’t even begin to imagine suppressing everything as long as you did.” It was half of an accusation, Will realized. Tier didn’t believe that Will could’ve attempted such a feat. 

“I crafted an entirely different persona to cope,” Will admitted, and was shocked to find that what he was saying felt true. “An anxious shell of a man that allowed me to navigate the world as someone… abnormally normal. I lived the lie for so long that I believed it. I feared myself, feared what I knew I could become.”

(He still feared it, at times, when that anxious part of him made itself known again. Feared it when he realized he didn’t have a plan, now that he admitted his enjoyment of the kill. Feared what he didn’t know, what would come next.)

Tier nodded, a mix of interest and understanding coating his face. “I used to fear myself, too. But I had a psychiatrist that helped me see past it, see a life beyond what I showed the world.” 

“Dr. Lecter,” Will stated, glancing at Tier and seeing the flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

“Dr. Lecter,” Tier confirmed with an eerie stillness.

Both stood still in the hush for a moment, as if sizing each other up. When Tier decided to break the silence, and Will returned to his slow walking and observing; he could use one of Tier’s tools to kill him, he could so _easily_ lean over the table, grab Tier, and shove a saw through the underside of his jaw.

“His advice is what drove me towards my current success,” was what Tier revealed. “And he did the same for you.”

“Yes,” Will said, slightly absent, voice light and high. He imagined taking a drill and shoving it into Tier’s temple. “He did.”

“Is that how you discovered me?” Tier questioned, spirit of inquiry in his tone. 

“Yes and no,” Will responded as he finally made it round the tables; his back was to Tier as he looked over the diagram and picture covered wall. “I saw the… aftermath of your hunt, first. Dr. Lecter was the one that pointed me in your direction.” Will turned around, slow and steady. He saw Tier, and he saw the head of the suit behind him: one and the same.

“Dr. Lecter was always helpful, like that,” Tier said, a flicker of confusion on his face as if he recognized something in Will; as if Tier had just now realized that Will had circled once entirely around Tier and his table; as if Tier had just now recognized that he was being hunted in his own den, that he was _prey_.

“Yes,” Will agreed, tone dark and clear, “he is.”

And then Will moved, quickly bridging the gap between Tier and himself in a powerful stride. Tier reached for a weapon on the table, but Will was already throwing the first punch. 

Pain sparked in Will’s hand as his knuckles met Tier’s jaw. Tier stuttered in his movements, braced himself for a second on one of the side tables. It didn’t escape Will’s view that Tier grabbed a small screwdriver; it simply didn’t matter. Will was already bringing down his hands, grasped together, onto the back of Tier’s ribs. Will felt a lovely _crack_ in Tier’s body at contact, and Tier could only half-gasp with the pain that must’ve blossomed around his lungs. 

In a shocking flash of movement, Tier stood and swiped at Will’s neck with the screwdriver. Will barely dodged, stepping back in time to avoid the slash. A truly animalistic look had overtaken Tier’s eyes. In that moment, Will knew he was fighting the monster, and not the man, despite the lack of suit. 

Tier wasn’t the only one that could move fast, though, and Will countered by violently grabbing the arm that Tier held the screwdriver with; he quickly drew the bait knife he had in his vest and stabbed it through Tier’s exposed, elbow crease. The screwdriver clattered to the ground as Tier was forced to let go of it, staring in rage at the wound Will had created. Tier tried to shove Will away with his non-dominant, free arm, to no avail.

As quickly as the blade went in, Will pulled it out and sunk it into the side of Tier’s neck. Tier’s mouth was open in shock as blood began to quickly gurgle up and out of his mouth. For a brief moment, Will saw Abigail, saw Abigail bleeding out before him, but then she was gone. 

And it was only Tier.

Will supported Tier’s body as he forced, guided him backwards. Grabbing Tier’s hair, Will shoved the dying man’s head into the jaws of his own creation, into the jaws that Tier saw as his own. Tier tried to scramble, tried to resist, but he was losing too much blood, wasn’t getting any oxygen, and was left completely to Will’s savage form of mercy as Will forced the hydraulics of the jaws to clamp shut and _bite_. 

**_Crunch_**.

Tier went completely limp, and Will let his body go. 

_Do ragged bits of scalp cling to your teeth, trailing in tails of hair like comets?_ , Tier had asked in their correspondence. Will looked upon the crushed skull of Tier, eyes hollow, yet still holding hints of feral fear, and considered the question. Bits of Tier’s own scalp clung to the beast’s teeth; the ouroboros had consumed itself. Will knew it was always going to end this way, for Tier. A wild monster is not made to live the life of a tame man. Death was preferable to a prison sentence. It was why Will considered it mercy, however gory it may be.

_Drip, drip, drip_ , came the sound of blood onto the tile floor. His eyes trailed from the parts of skull and brain matter that became exposed in the bite to the wound in Tier’s neck, to the stab in his arm, to the pool of quickly growing blood.

Will slowly stepped back, one, two, three, and let himself absorb the moment. The divine silence had settled unto him again, deathly sweet and dangerously addictive. The same sense of justice that he’d experienced with Ingram was distant and faint; it wasn’t important. This… this was predator versus predator. This was about _power_. 

Will shivered at the realization. 

And he waited, basking in the heady feeling, until the—

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

—finally stopped. 

Will utilized some of Tier’s own possessions in order to make the haul easier. He took a duffel bag from Tier’s bedroom and put the body segment of the exoskeleton into it, a prize. Next, he retrieved the second tarp from the trunk of his car and utilized it to wrap Tier’s body up, being careful to not step in the pool of blood when he retrieved the body from it’s hanging mount. Will didn’t bother to separate the man from the beast teeth; they were one and the same in death. A careful analysis of the scene ensured Will that no DNA, hair, or fingerprints of his own were left behind. There was a reason he’d kept his hands to himself, when he usually reached out to touch and explore new spaces, and it was the same reason he kept his knitted cap on, despite being inside. _No evidence_.

After ensuring the body was secured in the trunk and the bone-filled duffel was ensconced on the passenger seat, Will took off his beanie and slightly bloodied vest. Settled in the car, he began the drive to Baltimore. This wasn’t part of his plan, not truly, but it felt so entirely _right_. He could not deny the tug, the pull towards Hannibal. The desire to bring Tier’s body back and show him right now, _I did this for you. For us. He’s dead by my hand, with death in my hand. Do you trust me? Do you trust me? **Do you trust me?**_

The hour was late, and Will was sure that Hannibal was sound asleep; as if the man wasn’t the same monster of the likes of Tier, of Will. In the lonely hours of the late night and the early morning, only they existed. It was their eternally moonlit life, the life of death and blood.

Months ago, Will would’ve feared this level of submersion. Now, he painfully acknowledged that he would never be able to swim to the surface again. This was his life. Forevermore, he would be chasing the calming high of murder in his quest for power, justice, and revenge. Will had always known there was beauty in decay, but this… this wasn’t just knowing. This was reveling. This was him, opening his eyes and _seeing_. 

Distantly, Will realized he was at Hannibal’s. Using his prior knowledge of Hannibal’s house, he entered the correct code into the garage door panel, and it opened. Hannibal hadn’t even bothered to change it, even after Will’s last break in. Did he know that Will wouldn’t come back and try and kill him again? Or did he simply not care? 

(Or was it something else entirely?)

The noise of the garage opening would surely wake up Hannibal, that much Will was certain of. He didn’t mind as he returned to his car and pulled in, making sure the garage closed behind him again. In the warm, temporary light, he popped the trunk and peeled open the tarp. Exposed was the cold, pale body of Randall Tier. In an oddly, easy movement, Will hauled the body over his shoulders as a man carrying his big game catch. 

When Will briefly caught his reflection in the car windows, he saw his antlers, branch like and bloodied, sprawling upwards and out of sight from his ruffled hair. Will carried on, undisturbed, as he opened the door to the house and made his way to the dining room. Without bothering to turn any lights on, Will dropped the body on the table and exhaled. 

It was messy.

It was _messy_ : Tier’s mutilated head that mixed with the red-stained bone of his creation; the blood that had seeped into and dried on Tier’s clothes; the blood that equally stained Will’s dark blue flannel, a shirt he wouldn’t have worn around Hannibal nowadays; the wild curls of Will’s hair, unruly and mussed by the beanie. 

It was messy and it showed one thing: Will was falling apart at the seams.

The dining room doors opened, and the soft lighting flicked on. Hannibal stood at the opposite end of the table, composed and regal even in his pajama pants and sweater and despite the late-early hour. 

“Where do we stand?” Will asked, stare vacant as he looked down at Tier’s body. 

Hannibal didn’t respond immediately, letting beats pass in the air like a metronome. “I believe you stand on the precipice of greatness.”

“And you?” Will looked up, desperately catching Hannibal’s gaze.

“I wouldn’t be averse to joining you there.”

At one head of the table was one world: Hannibal, deliberate and controlled and unaffected (yet, was that even true?). At the other head was another world: Will, unpredictable and chaotic and so affected that it _hurt_ (but he’d never admit that he was, sinking his emotions as he did). Between the two worlds, laid across the table, was death. A third world of their own creation; the billion-blooded sea.

Hannibal crossed the chasm, Moses parting the sea as he walked over to Will and stood by his side. He took Will’s right hand (ever so gently), the hand that only harbored one bruised knuckle. The evidence of Will’s fight with Tier was left on the other man. Will walked away clean.

“And so the beast consumed itself,” Hannibal stated after letting Will’s hand go, following Will’s gaze out to Tier’s body. “Tell me what you want, Will.” His voice was low, so low and quiet that it nearly felt intimate. 

That was the question, though, wasn’t it? What did Will want? 

(He wanted many things, many things. He wanted to be able to kidnap and torture Alec Sinclair without interruption. He wanted to continue his vigilante-esque spree of murder. He wanted to sink deeper, deeper, deeper into the depths, without the repercussions that came with. He wanted Hannibal to give him the same respect that he’d given Hannibal, his undivided attention; he wanted Hannibal to end his affair with Alana. Will had banished Jack from the game. _Why couldn’t Hannibal do the same?_ )

“I want you to stop seeing Alana,” Will decided on, the impulsive words feeling like self-inflicted wounds.

Hannibal stilled slightly beside Will, as if he wasn’t expecting that to be his response. Before Hannibal could agree or disagree, Will continued.

“I’m done with Jack. He doesn’t deserve to be a part of—” _Us. Our story. Our dance._ “—this. I want you to do the same. Leave Alana out,” Will demanded, voice utterly calm and quiet despite the nature of his request.

“And what of your plans? Your hypothetical?” Hannibal questioned, almost sounding worried for Will.

Will turned to look at Hannibal, tilting his head up ever-so slightly. “Do you doubt my patience?”

“You seemed to doubt your own patience only a short while ago,” Hannibal explained. Will didn’t know if a ‘short while’ meant a few days or a few weeks. Time had long since started bleeding together. “Have your feelings changed?”

“They haven’t,” Will replied, looking away again. “But I can tide myself over until I have a chance to prove myself again.” 

Hannibal took a moment as the words settled in the air before responding, “Human sacrifice is not the only way to appease the gods.”

Will considered the statement and thought about how else to appeal to Hannibal. To murder in someone’s name was a high form of flattery, what else could there be? 

“You’re loyalties no longer lie with Jack Crawford, but his piece remains on the board,” Hannibal elaborated, and Will nodded slightly. 

“I’ll... work on Jack,” Will replied.

Will saw Hannibal nod in his peripheral view. “And I’ll talk with Alana in the morning.”

With an exhale, Will pulled out the chair in front of himself and sat down. He’d accomplished something. He’d done something. And the adrenaline coursing through his veins was fading, leaving him crashing, crashing, crashing down. His reality was beginning to blur at the edges, and it was as if he was looking at life through a filter of water; distorted and distant. 

“Randall Tier was a formidable opponent, yet you walked away unscathed,” Hannibal noted, still standing beside Will. He rested a hand on Will’s shoulder, and Will felt himself return to his body. He was here. Hannibal was here. They were here together, so, here, Will would stay. “I imagine he saw your intentions; but as the glint of the rail tempts us when we hear the approaching train, he could not look away.” 

“He was too curious,” Will remembered. “He wanted… he wanted to know that he wasn’t alone.” 

Hannibal’s hand pressed gently into Will’s shoulder, almost in agreement. “Lonely, is the predator at the top of the food chain.” 

“If Randall Tier was an apex predator, he wouldn’t be dead,” Will said with furrowed brows.

“By your hand, and laying on my dining table.” 

The realization came to Will not a second later. Tier wasn’t the apex predator; Will was, Hannibal was, _they were_. 

(They could be, together; not alone on the mountain of their own making. Not alone in the deepest trench. Not alone in the dark, watery depths.)

It was too much. It was too much and Will couldn’t take a moment for himself, couldn’t slip away into his stream where the rushing waters waited for him, where he was completely submerged below the surface. It was isolation caused by his own, painful design. 

Hannibal gave another squeeze of Will’s shoulder, and Will focused on the gentle pressure. Surrounded by the current of his mind, it was (as always) anchoring. 

“What did you see when you killed Randall?” Hannibal asked, voice soothing.

“I saw…” _A trapped animal. A fearful creature. Abigail with blood gushing from her throat._ “...an opportunity.” 

“An opportunity you used to gain a favor from me, to earn my trust. In that regard, you owe Randall Tier a debt,” Hannibal explained as he shifted to put another hand on Will’s other shoulder, keeping Will steady despite Will being unable to see him: the devil on both his shoulders. “How will you repay him?”

Will scrunched his nose once, in confusion. “I already have,” he replied.

“How so?” Hannibal asked, bending over so his head hovered next to Will’s. In a whisper: “Tell me your design.”

Will shuddered an exhale, closed his eyes, and 

let 

the 

pendulum 

swing.

The room was empty, save Will Graham and Randall Tier. The lights were out, yet an unnatural glow was present, casting soft shadows that played tricks on Will’s mind. Will stood in order to banish the phantoms in his peripheral, gaining a clearer look at the dead man (the dead beast) in front of him. A heartbeat steadily echoed with no discernable source.

“Hello again,” Will greeted.

_Beat-beat. Beat-beat. Beat-_ blink. Tier’s eyes flickered down to look at Will.

“Come closer,” the creature requested, mouth unable to move in clamped-shut jaws. _“I wanna see you.”_

Will rounded the table, his slow steps in rhythm with the heartbeat (rounded the table as he had in Tier’s workshop earlier). Now, a predator admiring its catch, its prize, its meal.

_“Can you see you?”_

Will held his hands behind his back as he continued to walk around the table. “When the sediment settles,” he replied. “When the waters are clear.”

_Beat-beat. Beat-beat._ A copy of Tier, standing despite its crushed head, stood in the corner of the room. Darkness shrouded its gory wounds as the shadows continued to slink about. Like the haze of a smoking lounge.

_“You killed me.”_

“You’re welcome.”

_Beat-beat. Beat-beat._ In another blink, the copy stood in a different corner, its physical presence silent despite Tier’s voice echoing in Will’s head.

_“My death isn’t what you’re seeking,”_ it taunted.

“Your death is a stepping stone,” Will explained, “and the fate I gifted you is far better than what anyone else would’ve delivered.”

_“You showed me mercy. You showed me pride. You refuse to show me respect.”_

“I showed you enough.”

_“I’m not the only one you refuse to respect.”_

“I don’t owe it to anyone,” Will retorted as he came full circle and took his seat again. Tier’s copy stood at the opposite end of the table.

_“Anyone except yourself.”_

_Beat-beat. Beat-beat. Beat-_ blink. The copy disappeared. Will couldn’t see it, but he knew it loomed behind him. Felt its crawling presence in his mind as _Sarcophagidae_ larvae devour carrion.

_“This is my becoming. It can be yours, too.”_

Will shook his head in silent retaliation. 

This would not be his becoming, and he would not like these last, clinging echoes of Randall Tier change his determination. After all: “This is _my_ design.”

Will opened his eyes, and a bittersweet feeling washed over him as he looked at Tier’s body. He could do better, he could give Tier a better ending, more respect, but Will was not ready.

“He knew his killer. He knew me,” Will started, finally allowing himself to speak from the killer’s (from his own) perspective. “I didn’t just meet him, I understood him. He had a different pathology, but we shared the same instinct.”

“Tell me, Will,” Hannibal said, comforting hands moving up his shoulders and closer to his neck, “did you empathize with him?”

“ _No_. It’s… it’s less empathy,” Will explained, words coated with bitterness, “more envy. Randall Tier was allowed to become. I’m not.”

“And why is that?” Hannibal inquired, quiet curiosity lacing his tone.

“I don’t know,” Will whispered, and the lie was sweet on his lips.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

After tending to his dogs, the rest of Will’s day was laced with the calming labor of disposing of Tier’s body. After being sent home with a thermos full of coffee (Hannibal had insisted; Will found himself easily persuaded), he’d taken Tier’s body into his barn. Will went about cutting up the corpse methodically, sawing Tier apart at the joints.

It was meditative, in a way. The calm of the kill washed over Will again, cool waters of his mind reflecting the cold temperature of the barn. He knelt on the tarp, hovering over the disassembled body, and went about making segments of segments. A forearm became four pieces of what it used to be, fingers were separated from the hand, the rib cage was split open and swiftly divided by two, and then again, and then again. 

The frigid conditions meant two things: 

One: The body was not easy to cut. Not only was bone Will’s enemy, but the cold skin and stiffening muscles and ligaments proved more resistant than they would usually be. It was just enough work to make his muscles burn, working up a sweat despite it being below-freezing. 

Two: The meat kept, and it kept _well_. The process of acquiring the meat was why Will had been determined to keep this job methodical; the collection process required a modicum of control. He procured meat from the scapula, the mid back, the upper leg, and the shoulder. Each piece was carefully wrapped and placed in his freezer for later consideration. Hannibal would certainly appreciate the gesture, if they were to have dinner another time soon. Will did not question the cannibalistic line of thought, lacking the emotional capacity to do so.

Freddie Lounds called him just after sunrise. Will flicked off the incandescents in preference for natural lighting as they discussed her _book_. She requested a meeting time ( _I’m trying to meet a deadline, so sooner rather than later would be great_ , had been her choice of words) and Will pushed it off, claiming that he was _really, quite busy right now_. He hung up before she could protest.

A moment later, as he was making his way back to the tarp with the puzzle piece body parts, his phone rang again. He declined it without looking at the screen, nearly scowling at Freddie’s annoyance. He was just settling back onto the tarp when his phone went off for a third time.

“As I told you, Freddie, I’m _busy_ ,” Will stated as he answered, tone polite but discreetly acidic in nature.

“And what are you so _busy_ with?” Jack Crawford accused on the other side of the line. 

Will bit the inside of his mouth at the sound of Jack’s voice. He looked at Randall Tier’s unrecognizable body in front of him and clenched his jaw. “Jack,” Will greeted, cold and detached.

“We need to talk,” Jack gravely stated.

For a brief moment, Will’s blood ran cold. Had they discovered Tier’s residence? _No, no_ , Will reminded himself. If the FBI had discovered something substantial, something that linked Will to a crime, he’d be in cuffs right now. Actually, given his history, there’d be a SWAT team bearing down on his house. Not only that, but Will was _careful_. Not Hannibal Lecter levels of careful, but certainly more careful than anybody else would have been in Will’s situation. Even if they tied motive to Will, somehow, they’d lack physical evidence. They’d lack a body. 

Unless… Ingram?

_No_ , Will chided himself again. He needed to relax. Nobody would figure it out, nobody _had_ figured it out. Will had been keeping close, but discreet, tabs on Clark Ingram. The local precinct in Ingram’s city was handling the case, and they hadn’t produced any results yet. 

Will was safe, and that meant Jack was referring to the elephant in the room.

“I’ve already said my piece,” Will bit out, “and I’m not changing my stance.”

“ _Goddamnit_ Will,” Jack said, but it lacked his usual ferocity. He was exasperated. “You can _talk_ to me—”

Will didn’t want Jack to continue, not when Will had already dug his own watery grave and submerged himself into it. “No, Jack. Unless you’re calling to tell me that you’re done with your—your Captain Ahab hunt, I don’t want to hear it.”

Silence came from the other side of the call. Then: “I’m sorry, Will. But you and I both know the truth, and I can’t let him get away with this.”

The line went dead. Will pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it, his reflection catching in the turned-off screen. He muted and set the device down before his quiet fury overtook him. He was not breaking or throwing anything today.

Will gladly returned to his soothing work, the quiet of the early winter morning welcoming him with ease.

The sun continued to climb in the sky as Will filled a trash bag with what remained of Tier. Grabbing the shovel he used to dig Ingram’s grave and hauling the bag up over his shoulder, Will set out to the woods that surrounded his property. Half a foot of snow covered the ground, but the sun was clear and warm on Will’s back. His sleeves were rolled up despite the fact that he could see his breath. Every step was that of snow or slush. He sunk either way.

He didn’t bury the body segments in the same spot since he damn well knew better. His years of studying entomology were useful, in this aspect. Will found himself internally laughing at one particular memory of a professor explaining the best way to hypothetically dispose of a body in order for insects to consume it. _Cut it up into little pieces and bury it scattered_.

Of course, it was winter. Now was not the time for bugs to expedite the decomposition process. But come spring, the pieces would be nothing but bits of bone. Being buried shallow (as opposed to six feet deep) meant there was a greater chance of dipterans showing up to lay their famished larvae. The sarcophagids, calliphorids, and muscids would be deterred by the covered flesh, but it certainly wouldn’t stop any _Necrophila americana_ from feasting. From the determined blow flies and flesh flies and house flies that _would_ brave the dirt in order to lay their young would come the predaceous staphyilinids and _Necrodes surinamensis_ to hunt the gorging maggots. The _Phoridae_ and _Stratiomyidae_ families would make their appearance to consume even more in the height of the decay stage, ensuring that no nutritious bits of flesh remained. When there would be little more than hair, skin, and bones in post-decay, the clean-up crews of _Piophilidae_ and _Psychodidae_ —among many forms of God's beloved beetles—would arrive to replace the roaming maggots. Only then would the dry remains stage be reached, and skeletonization would be achieved. Tiny fragments of white bone would be hidden amongst the gritty dirt. Forbidden treasures. 

(If he was a being of earth, grounded and sure, it’d be easier to decompose. Instead, Will’s body would eventually float, float, float away. Breaching the surface would do nothing but expose the marbled flesh that marred his bloated, beaten corpse. Disgusting. Dead. The sight alone would be enough to make any living human feel sick.)

It was a cycle of fuel for creatures that were a cornerstone of their planet’s ecosystem. In a sense, Will was giving back to nature. 

Over fifteen small, shallow graves later—dotted all around the edges of his property—the trash bag was empty. The sun had passed it’s high point and was slowly sinking in the early afternoon. The stark blueness of the sky gave the illusion of eternal morning, of eternal mourning.

After peaking out from the tree line to ensure no one had showed up on his property during the time he was gone, Will went about disposing of the trash bag (by stuffing it into _another_ trash bag, and putting it in the soon-to-be-disposed-of trash) and cleaning the tarps. The one in the back of his car had stayed relatively clean, but the one he’d wrapped and cut up Tier on required a significant amount of hosing off. The blood-mixed water stained the snow, then the slush, the dead grass, the mud, and finally disappeared as Will flooded it away. He cleaned and removed his boots before he entered his home, his sanctuary. His dogs happily greeted him at the back door, and after washing his hands (stained red), he fed them their late lunch.

Before he dared to feed himself, Will discarded his dirtied clothes (blood and mud barely visible on the dark colors) in the wash. The last time Will had done this, the trophies he’d acquired had come in the form of a bat and a shovel: one gifted, one kept. Now, his trophy was the bone suit that Randall Tier had crafted. Tier’s decapitated head had remained mangled with the head of the suit when Will buried it, as it was fundamentally _wrong_ to disconnect the two. The body of the suit, however, was carefully hidden in his now-locked barn. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do with it yet. He was torn between keeping it out of respect ( _You refuse to show me respect._ ) and discarding it in some dumpster far, far away from Wolf Trap, Virginia.

His shower ran long and scalding hot. Will didn’t realize just how _cold_ he’d become, outside in the freezing conditions for over half a day. His muscles ached gloriously, and he felt comfortable in his body as he cleaned himself.

(It was a nice departure from the discomfort he’d found looking at his own body, recently. The bruises had faded, but sometimes, when the light was low, he could’ve sworn they were still there. Could’ve sworn he still _felt_ them. Now, though, he felt apathy towards his body. It was a thing, it was a tool that could be used to accomplish his jobs and carry out his plans. It was debatably his. His reflection did not match when the apathy overtook him; his antlers were absent and his eyes were glazed over with still waters.)

When the shower turned into a sauna, Will shut the water off and went about getting ready for the evening. Hair damp and warmly dressed, he retrieved his phone and clicked the call button underneath Alana Bloom’s contact. Will idled while he waited for her to pick up, making his way to the kitchen and debating making lunch (or rather, dinner, at the late hour). 

Alana answered on the first ring. “Will, hi,” she greeted, her tone a mix between surprised, friendly and… annoyed? Will confusedly glanced at his phone, checking his reception (three bars, as usual), as he heard Alana say over the line, “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“I’ve been busy,” Will said, putting his phone back to his ear and gazing out over his property out of a kitchen window. The bright winter sky had faded to a blush pink; the snow was silhouetted azure in the casted shadows. 

“Hopefully not too busy,” she said, again sounding a tad peeved.

“Are you… alright?” Will asked, tentative as his curiosity overtook his more goal-orientated self. 

“Yeah, yes,” she responded, a tad too quickly. “Of course. Are _you_?” Deflecting was not a good look on Alana. 

“Yes,” Will easily lied, “all things considering.”

At that, Alana huffed a laugh. Will could easily imagine her smile, yet felt nothing at the thought of it. “Tell me about it,” she said, tone joking but… 

The pieces fell into place. Hannibal had told Will he’d call Alana in the morning, after all. 

He'd had broken up with her. 

(It sounded so juvenile, but it felt so _damn right_ as he looked at the now cemented idea in his mind. It was _over_ between those two. _Finally_.)

Alana wasn’t the type to cry over a break up, no, but she _would_ question Hannibal’s abrupt end to their relationship. The majority of Will’s curiosity dropped like a stone in water. A form of relief rushed over him, but not fully for Alana’s separation from the good Dr. Lecter. The relief was for successfully isolating Hannibal, and by extension, himself (isolating _them_ ). 

Will picked up the conversation and pulled it back on path. “I actually called to talk about Jack.”

“Did you have a chance to talk with him?” Alana asked, tone turning serious.

“I did,” Will replied, annoyance and exhaustion evident in his voice. “He didn’t take it well.”

“I can imagine,” Alana sympathized. 

“Yeah. And he isn’t letting it go,” Will said with a sigh, remembering Jack’s call from earlier. He rubbed his eyes, genuinely frustrated.

A beat passed over the line, empty static filling the ear his phone was pressed to. Alana was the one who finally spoke up. “Are you home?”

“Where else would I be?” Will said with a smile, and a small, desperate laugh.

“I don’t know,” Alana said, mirroring Will’s own tone. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with _Hannibal_ recently.” It was accusatory and bitter, a fresh wound that had yet to scab over; Will could tell that Alana couldn’t help picking at it. Another ugly emotion, his still-unidentified _sickly rage_ reared its head at the thought of Hannibal talking to Alana about Will. How else would she know that they met so often, in the privacy of Hannibal’s office? At his home, when Alana _wasn’t_ there?

He clenched his jaw and turned around, cutting off his own train of thought as he responded with something entirely different, “What time were you thinking of coming over?”

“I still have to finish putting together some rubrics,” she explained. “So maybe around eight?”

“I’ll be here,” he responded vacantly.

“Great, see you soon.”

Will ended the call, a blank expression on his face as he considered throwing his phone again. Maybe snapping it in half. Shooting it into mechanical bits and pieces. There was no reason for the fantasies (after all, _he_ called Alana, _he_ needed to do this, _he_ needed his phone), but they swam around him anyway, taunting, goading him into committing impulsive acts. 

He set the phone down on the kitchen counter before he could do anything idiotic. Next to his phone, the whiskey he’d been gifted yesterday sat unopened. Vile thoughts rushed past him again, disrupting his calm seas. How easily it would be to grab the bottle and smash it over the edge of the counter, to throw it into the sink and watch the glass shatter, to use the jagged, broken neck to—

Will bit the inside of his cheek. _Enough_. Enough. 

He didn’t dare touch the bottle or his phone. In fact, he didn’t touch _anything_. That meant, as Will sat on the edge of his bed, staring out the front window to the darkening outdoors, he did _nothing_. His hands rested in his lap, holding onto each other and tightly interwoven. Curled locks, now dry and unstyled, fell across his forehead in a wild fashion. 

(How he longed for the calm, the control he had only hours earlier when killing, taking apart, and discarding Randall Tier. How he longed for the moments of murder and the aftershocks that gave him purpose, meaning, and direction. How lost he felt when his world no longer revolved around the kill and the clean up. How he struggled to understand what he wanted. How he was so _lost_ in the dark waters, surrounded by nothing but pressure and the truths and traumas that swam this deep, that he’d discarded to the riverbed, settling on the seafloor. Where was Hannibal, to guide him in these currents? Where was Will, lost in himself? Could they ever find each other? Could Will ever _let_ himself find Hannibal? He understood, he saw, but could he _join_? Because, at this point, what other option did he have?)

Will’s clasped hands were trembling within each other. One leg was shaking with nerves and Will was unable to shove down the pain-induced anxiety. 

(He _hurt_ , something deep, deep inside him _hurt_. He couldn’t face the pain, just as he couldn’t face Hannibal, just as he struggled to face himself. Will longed for it, longed for the moments where he glanced into the mirror and he saw _himself_ looking back with blood painting his skin and dark antlers reaching upwards, upwards, upwards to the sky, to an uncaring God, to the stars and the galaxies above that were so much _greater_ than one individual man. He longed for the reflection where he stared and saw Hannibal, beside him, with him, a permanent part of him. Hannibal, Will, _them_. Three halves that couldn’t survive separation; the Trinity of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, together forming a concept as grand as God Himself. As much as Will tried to deny it, tried to placate his nearly-completed eroded morals—that were never truly _his_ in the first place—that he was only doing this to make ending Hannibal easier, to make his plans easier, he still couldn’t imagine it. Hannibal, dead. Hannibal, imprisoned. Hannibal, out of Will’s life. It was as impossible as _they_ were, as impossible as dividing three by zero. There was no life for Will without Hannibal, not after this. Not after everything. _There is no life for me_ with _Hannibal_ , he lied to himself because he refused to imagine the alternative of _them_ : two apex predators, no longer alone. That would require both of them to no longer lie, to no longer keep secrets and speak half-truths. Will couldn’t do that. He _couldn’t_ , and he certainly couldn’t go back to his old life. It wasn’t a life at all. At that, only one half remained on the table. Only one alternative that would fix everything, found within their third world of death.)

A set of knocks at his door and his dogs erupting into a chorus of barks startled him out of his shaking silence. Will felt—Will felt tears on his eyelashes, under his eyes, on his cheeks, and he—he—he had been _crying_?

Will didn’t cry. 

_He didn’t cry._

Confused, he brushed the dampness off his face, away from his eyes. He looked at his slightly dampened fingertips and sniffled, feeling dumbfounded at himself. Standing, he took a breath, making sure he was… normal. Normal. _Fine_.

Alana was at the door, and he opened it with a fake smile, ushering her in from the cold. The tendrils of dusk-light had slinked away, leaving only inky darkness in its wake. This was the hour Will would usually walk out into the fields around his property and look at his little house, his boat on the water. 

The thought only seemed bittersweet now, knowing what remained for him.

Alana and him exchanged greetings, and it wasn’t difficult for Will to see that she was hiding her own bitterness. She asked if he had something ( _anything_ ) to drink, seeing how she would need it if they were to talk about Jack Crawford again.

Lucky for Alana, Will had alcohol. He retrieved the gifted bottle from the kitchen and poured her some, shocked at the amount of control he had over himself. The thoughts of breaking the glass bottle still idled around Will, but he was able to keep them subdued in the presence of another human. She raised an eyebrow when she noticed he wasn’t drinking, and he shrugged in response and noted a lifestyle change. _Lifestyle change_ , indeed.

With both of them settled, Alana pulled out a flash drive and some papers. They were an assortment of protocols for reporting to the Office of the Inspector General. Apparently, she’d had them ready for a while now, waiting for when Will would finally call. On Will’s laptop, they drafted a report on Jack Crawford’s unethical and illegal investigation, how he’d forced Will Graham into investigating Dr. Hannibal Lecter under false pretenses, planning to use manners of entrapment to pin the crimes of the Chesapeake Ripper onto Lecter. Alana added her own statements, how Will had disclosed to her weeks earlier, how he had admitted everything to her (and Dr. Lecter) and only wanted Crawford to stop. It was the same hoops and hurdles Will had been going through for the past while, now. The lies were only becoming _formal_ now. Very official, very serious, very damning lies that would surely have Jack Crawford suspended or forced into an early retirement.

After an unknown amount of time, Will started a fire as Alana went over some of the finer details of their draft, ensuring the forms were adequately filled out, editing again and again. The spark flickered, flickered, then caught and burned. Will sat cross-legged as he gazed with unfocused eyes into the growing flames, his dogs settled around him. Winston’s head rested on Will’s thigh, and Will absently petted him. 

_Bittersweet_.

“Alana?” he found himself asking, turning his head over his shoulder to see her.

“Yes?” she replied, though she didn’t look up from Will’s laptop screen.

“If something happens to me,” Will started and swallowed, eyes misty again. “You’ll take care of my dogs, right?”

Alana’s typing stilled as a confused frown overtook her face. She looked over at Will, frown turning into a still-confused smile. “Of course. They’re good dogs. And even if they weren’t, I’d still look after them.” Her expression sobered a bit as she continued, “Are you okay?”

Will nodded, giving his own fake-confused smile. “Yes. Just… stressed over Jack. I keep thinking they’re going to arrest me again.” _Again_ was the word that made the statement stung. Lovely lies wrapped with their half-truths. 

“Will...” Alana said in that soft, gentle voice he had grown to hate, “you’re _not_ in trouble. In fact, Kade Prurnell might personally thank you for snitching.”

“Snitching,” Will deadpanned. 

Alana laughed slightly with a wince. “Not my best phrasing. Blame it on the whiskey.” She grabbed her glass, two fingers already downed, and lifted it up in mock toast.

Before she could drink it, though, Winston growled and jumped up from Will’s side, barking wildly. The other dogs joined in with him, and Alana stared perplexed at the agitated pack. Will remained neutral as he noticed the headlights that shone down his driveway. Alana followed Will’s gaze, twisting in her armchair to look out the window.

“Are you expecting someone else?” she asked.

Will shook his head with his reply, “No.” He stood, shushed his dogs, and walked to the door, peering out the window. 

It was Margot Verger’s expensive sports car; then, it was Margot Verger in an expensive fur coat stepping out of her expensive sports car and making her way up Will’s porch. He opened the door before she could knock, and she held out a bottle of whiskey. 

_Déjà vu_.

“Brought my own, this time,” she said as a greeting. With Alana in the house, Will had no choice but to let Margot in. 

Margot’s eyes widened slightly when she saw Alana. Alana, who was very casually sitting in Will’s house. Alana, who was holding a glass of whiskey despite Will having told Margot that he didn’t have any alcohol. Alana, who seemed somewhat comfortable in Will’s home, with her coat hung up and her heels discarded. 

And then Margot. _Margot_ , who had showed up on Will’s doorstep late at night. Margot, who was holding a bottle of whiskey as an offering for Will. Margot, who Will had let in without argument. Margot, whose intentions Will was still unclear about, and who had much more bravery than Will initially realized. 

“Alana, Margot. Margot, Alana,” Will introduced with minimal effort before heading to the kitchen to grab another glass for Margot.

Once back in the living room, Will wordlessly handed the glass to Margot before grabbing his jacket and putting on his shoes. He opened the front door and beckoned for his dogs to follow. They all jumped to their feet and bolted outside, grateful for a chance to run around and relieve themselves. Will kept his hands in his pockets as he inhaled, exhaled the cold air. Ice was in his lungs. He watched his dogs, his _dogs_ , his dogs that were _always_ there for him, run around in the cold. Will knew which ones were finicky and which ones were hardy by the amount of time each one spent out in the snow. They never returned all at once, something Will was grateful for. It gave him the opportunity to take his time as he cleaned them off, one by one.

With seven dogs returned and dry, Will headed back inside. As he kicked off his shoes and peeled off his jacket, he noted how conversation was flowing easily between the two women. He didn’t listen. They were on a different frequency than him, a frequency he would never be able to fully tune into. Without thinking, Will continued tending to his dogs. Dinner was served and the water bowls were refreshed. Will, despite not having eaten anything in a _while_ (maybe over a day and a half, or longer since he’d long lost the ability to tell time), was still not hungry.

The needs of his canine creatures satisfied, Will returned to his spot in front of the fireplace. He didn’t have to tell his dogs to join him again; they were settled now, and gladly laid down in their beds by the dancing flames after they finished their meals in the kitchen. Almost distantly, as if he were underwater, he noticed Alana and Margot were still talking. Will only perked up when they mentioned Hannibal, but it wasn’t anything important. Alana, mentioning her breakup, Margot consoling her with sarcasm and dry jokes. Alana, laughing. Margot, mentioning her therapy and the Verger dynasty, Alana comforting her with gentle words and that soft voice Will despised. Margot, thanking her, oddly genuine. 

They talked; the fire crackled.

And they talked; the embers glowed.

And 

Will 

did 

not 

care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a lighter note: this chapter is rather funny from Margot’s perspective. First of all, she had the confidence to show up at Will’s place again, despite him being rather passive-aggressively hostile towards her in the last visit. Specifically, she showed up to have sex for the purpose of getting pregnant and ended up being completely cold-shouldered by Will. Sorry Margot, Will’s busy dissociating in the deep end of the pool. Lucky for her, the lovely (and recently single) Alana Bloom was there. What we don’t see from Will’s conscious perspective is that Alana and Margot said farewell to dear Will (Will, absently mirroring their goodbyes, still focused on the fire and lost in the waters of his own head; Alana, promising she’d come by again tomorrow and they could head to Quantico together; Will, barely coming out of his daze to agree; Will, only finding sleep amongst his dogs again) and Alana suggested Margot come over to continue their talking and drinking. Margot tailgates Alana to her place, and Alana has rebound sex with Margot. This effectively replaces the ménage à trois scene from the same episode. Therefore, instead of Alana and Hannibal hooking up while Margot and Will did, Margot and Alana hook up while Hannibal and Will both stare into the fire at their respective homes.
> 
> Another note: I've never been so glad that Will has a background in forensic entomology because otherwise I wouldn't have the opportunity to apply my knowledge of forensic entomology to fiction. I haven't studied entomology in over a year, though, so while I believe the hypothetical insect succession is correct, it could contain errors. 
> 
> Fun fact: there are over 400,000 species of beetles! If there's a God, He must really like beetles. (This is also why I referred to beetles as "God's beloved" in this chapter).


End file.
